


Beyond the Sea

by keiliss



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Finding home, M/M, Rebirth, Reunions, Sailing To Valinor, Strange Lands, Undying Lands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor sails with Elrond and Galadriel, hoping to make a new life in the land promised as Elvenhome; strange, eerie, changeless, a place where the dead are reborn or rehoused or never return at all, the living become spirit, and no one walks on the beach.</p>
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	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> My beautiful cover art is by Red Lasbelin.

 

None of them had been sure what to expect when they arrived, but certainly not the crowd of people thronging the quayside. And then there was the light, which was subtly different to what they had left behind.  Erestor had grown up hearing about Tol Eressëa bathed in starlight, but that was back in the Years of the Trees of course, the Undying Lands of his grandfather’s memories. This was more like a very clear afternoon, the kind you see when the sun has gone behind a mountain peak but day is not yet done. There were lanterns the length of the flag-stoned quay though, so he supposed some work at least was still done here at night, in accordance with the stories and songs of his childhood.

He left the ship just behind Elrond, who had unaccustomedly hung back until given a firm push by Gandalf. Galadriel turned back to collect him, which left Erestor alone and looking around while he waited for the baggage to be unloaded. From what he could see of the organised chaos, it seemed likely to take a while. Meanwhile he scanned the crowd, looking against hope for a familiar face.

He had never known for sure how either of his parents died: his father had been one of the nameless thousands who had not survived the War of Wrath, and his mother had been killed in Eregion, but they had been kind, decent people, untouched by kin slaughter, and he had hoped to find them reborn when he arrived.  Glorfindel had told him they might have chosen not to return, but he had kept on believing, right up till now. And his sister – he kept searching the edge of the crowd, hoping against hope that she was just late again, the habit of a lifetime.

There was one other person he looked for, but a bit more covertly. Even with an interval in the Halls of Waiting  there had been enough time to move on from a relationship that had been of necessity discreet. He had looked elsewhere himself a few times, but nothing had ever quite lived up to the rush of excitement, the complex, enthralling balance they had found together. He had prepared himself for anything, from being greeted as an old but casual friend, to a sheepish introduction to a wife and three children, Either way, he had been sure he would at least be there – he had others to greet besides an old flame. 

He wasn’t.

Erestor forced the rush of sorrow and loss and – yes, disappointment – down and made himself focus on Elrond instead, who was being swamped by people, most of whom seemed to be strangers. He was staying close to Galadriel, who Erestor could just hear greeting people and chattering with edgy brightness about the interesting voyage and how her husband, yes, yes, the Sinda, would be following when the last elves were finally ready to leave. So responsible, someone said, and even from where he stood Erestor could see her twitch.

Elladan, who gossiped, had told him the rows between his grandparents on the subject of when Celeborn would sail had been awe-inspiring, but Celeborn was not called the Wise for nothing; he had a point. Someone had to stay behind to shepherd the uncertain, in many cases frightened, Sindar and Silvan elves who had chosen not to remain east of the sea. No one had quite believed the unmaking of the Ring would bring about such a radical change to their lives in Middle-earth, and some needed more time to prepare than others when it came to leaving the only home they knew.

It was assumed the Noldor would be less concerned about sailing, though, but Middle-earth was the only home Erestor and others like him had known, too, and he had hardly embraced with gusto the idea of leaving the lands of his birth, never to return. No one had shepherded them either – Elrond had more than enough to deal with, Galadriel spend most of the preparation time wandering her wood and saying goodbye to her trees, or so the rumour went, and Glorfindel had all manner of other things to arrange.

He wished the twins had come with them. Or Glorfindel, who could always be relied upon to see the bright side of anything and who could make Erestor laugh at the direst moments. The twins had decided to stay for the span of their sister’s life, and Glorfindel had chosen to remain with them – for advice and guidance, as he put it, though Erestor knew it was to make quite sure they were on that last ship whenever it happened to sail, his final act of service to the half-elf he had taken as his lord.

A gull dived low overhead shrieking, and he realized he had become lost in a day dream. People who had left the ship after him were already moving off. Apparently everyone knew someone or had an idea of where to go or what to do except for him, which was unusual as Erestor always knew exactly where to go and what to do, and if he didn’t he found out before he could be caught out. The hobbits were even in good hands, hustled past him by Gandalf.

There was something stranger than usual about Gandalf, too. Ever since that stomach-twisting night when they had passed onto the Straight Way, he had started looking and sounding younger by the day. Erestor could have sworn there were a few dark hairs showing in amongst the white of the wizard’s hair and beard, which was so much against nature that he was inclined to keep his eyes averted.

The only other person who seemed to notice was Galadriel, who he had seen watching the Maia with a speculative eye. She had been very quiet during the voyage. Erestor knew she had no real desire even at this late stage to go home, but the centuries as a ringbearer had wearied and physically weakened her and she had been out of choices. Strong willed and independent as she was, he could guess how much she might resent that.

“There’s a good inn just up the road and to the left if you need a place to stay,” Luntindo suggested as he hurried past. He was one of Círdan’s senior mariners and had made several trips West. “If your bags are marked as I suggested, I can have them sent on to you there. We’re doing as much for Lord Elrond, so they can drop yours off when they pass. Just say I sent you. No need to worry about coin yet, there’ll be someone along to sort all that out for you in a few days.”

Erestor watched a flock of small white and grey gulls swoop past calling to one another, just like gulls everywhere. He considered the alternative option of going along with Elrond and his extended – and royal – family, and shuddered. There were more reasons than one to avoid that. “An inn?  I think I might do that, yes. Thank you, Captain.”

They had known one another for two Ages, and ‘captain’ was a courtesy title Erestor had bestowed on Luntindo long ago.  The normally serious mariner cracked a smile and ducked his head in acknowledgement. He looked across at the remaining families and friends on the quay, considered for a moment and then asked carefully, “None of your family here?”

Erestor put on a courtier’s face and shrugged ironically. “Apparently not.  I always suspected most elves who died badly and unknown would choose to keep to the Halls. I had hoped though… I had a sister who I would have loved to find again.”  Not something he was ready to discuss yet, but Luntindo was an old acquaintance, and deserved courtesy. The pain didn’t stop there of course, but it was all no one’s business but his own. 

“Not everyone makes the journey to greet every ship,” Luntindo offered in reassurance, his attention already on his next task, and the one after. It would be long after star-rise and the lighting of the lamps before he was done here. “The inn is one of the places people will look for a new arrival. Give it a day or two. Things are different here, word spreads in its own time.” 

 -----o

Erestor shouldered the bag of clothing and personal effects he had kept with him on board ship, and worked his way through the thinning crowd and towards the road up from the harbour that Luntindo had indicated. Elrond, also moving slowly in that direction, caught hold of his arm as he passed and pulled him to a halt. “Where will you be staying?” he asked in a voice that sounded less secure than was normal for the lord of Imladris. “We must be careful not to lose touch with each other.”

Heads were turning, several of them with eyebrows raised in delicate curiosity as they considered Erestor. He had already seen before he left the security of the White Ship that those faces he would have given a large part of his immortality to see were not present, and right now there was no one else, no matter how important or legendary, that he wanted to meet. Before he could be introduced around and forced to make small talk – “But where is your family?” - he said hurriedly, “I’m spending the night at an inn up the road that one of the mariners recommended. He seems to think it would be easier for people to find me there? After that – I need to see if I can track down any distant relatives, or… something. My plans,” he added more firmly, “are fluid.”

Elrond frowned at him, concerned, and then dropped his voice, “I had hoped someone from your family would be here, but if you can’t find them, you know you always have a place where I am, don’t you? Wherever that might end up being.”

Erestor met his worried gaze and smiled affectionately. They had been through a lot together, were and always would be close friends. “During the voyage Círdan said to give it a couple of days, and he was right, of course. After that I will have a better idea of how things work here, we all will.”

He did not ask about Celebrían, not with all these people too close and pretending not to listen, but her absence was not a good sign. For Elrond’s sake, and for Galadriel’s, he hoped the morning would bring good news. For himself, she had been dear to him, but he could not reconcile the pale, empty woman who had sailed alone from Mithlond under a leaden sky with any kind of healing.

Low buildings made of matte grey and gleaming white stone flanked the cobbled street, graceful lamps stood at intervals along one side, while on the other was a small, flagged footpath to which he kept. Horses trotted past him up the road, their riders talking and laughing to one another, a carriage of unique and intriguing design trundled past, as did several wooden carts pulled by short, stocky horses with unusually shaggy-looking coats.

The walk up from the harbour was pleasant. The air was fresh and balmy, the sea and gulls and voices calling put him in mind of Mithlond in the old days when Lindon had still been a kingdom and his second home. He tried to see where the light was coming from, if it was in fact the sun shining here as it did back over the sea, but could not pinpoint the source. It had been like this since they moved onto the Straight Way, where starlight had guided them for what felt like days, to be replaced as though with the coming of dawn by this warm, summery light. He wondered who he could ask. He was starting to miss the midday sun.

The inn was further up than Luntindo had implied. Erestor was just starting to get that vaguely panicked feeling that went with suspecting one was lost in an unfamiliar place when he spotted a sign up ahead, a wrought iron bracket with “Swan’s Rest’ written in cheerful yellow letters on a grey board. It was just as well as the light was starting to grow dim and while Erestor had no idea how long a day might last on Tol Eressëa, it was clear it was reaching an end.

The open doorway had pots on either side that held unfamiliar red flowers, and as Erestor approached a tall man came out with a jug of water which he poured carefully, half into each pot. He looked up at the approaching elf and smiled a greeting. “Come off the ship, did you?” he asked in a lyrical voice, speaking softly accented Sindarin.

Erestor nodded. “Yes, I did. I was told you might have a room for me here?” Tiredness and the afternoon’s disappointments gave his voice a trace of diffidence.

The elf nodded cheerily. “Yes, we have a few rooms left. Some captains send their passengers up the road into town, to the big hostelries, but many find their way here instead. We try and make things more familiar for new arrivals than they do in town too,” he added proudly. “Things like food and the way the rooms are laid out. And we give advice if it’s needed on how to go about looking up family and old friends.” He extended an arm in a manner similar to how Glorfindel had taught him was the customary greeting in Gondolin. When Erestor clasped it, he smiled. “My name is Rainano. Whatever questions you might have, I can try and answer them. If not, my father will know. My father probably knows everything.”

“Your father runs the inn then?” Erestor asked, offering courtesy in response to friendship. “A family business?” This was something he could understand, yes.

Rainano looked amused. “He pretends to, when he’s around,” he said, laughing. “Though mainly this is my interest. He should be known to you, though. He was on your ship and no doubt is the one who sent you up here.”

“…. _Luntindo_?” Erestor tried to imagine the taciturn mariner as husband and father, but his usually sound imagination deserted him utterly. 

“Even so.” Rainano looked smug. He must have faced this response before. “Come in, I’ll organise a room. What did you say your name was?”

“Erestor….” No longer Erestor of Imladris.

Rainano’s face lit up totally. He was rather like a friendly, well-loved puppy, Erestor decided, trying and failing to find any trace of the father in the son. “Oh, your name is known, yes. Father spoke well of you last time he was here. Come in and welcome. I hope you will feel at home here while you decide where you want to live and how you’d like to spend your time. We do that, you know,” he added seriously. “We choose what fulfils us and do it. That is why I have this inn. I hear it was not the same in the Harsh Lands, but here – here you can rest.”

 -----o

Dinner was satisfying, though less like the food Erestor was familiar with than his host would have liked. Rainano had been born on Tol Eressëa and had never travelled further than Aman’s mainland after Númenor sank. At his father’s insistence, his mother had sailed into the West while still pregnant with him to escape the dangers hovering at the end of the Watchful Peace, so he had never known the lands of his conception and had only recently got to know his father. Now that ships were crossing on a regular basis, several had been captained by the Luntindo himself, taking advantage of the chance to finally spend time with his wife and son.

The inn was pleasantly full without being crowded, and Rainano was kept busy at dinner, moving from one guest to the next. Afterwards, when mildly alcoholic drinks were served on a small verandah that looked out to sea, he managed to spend more time with Erestor, clearly eager to hear about his father’s life beyond the sea in a place so far away he might as well have been living in the Halls.

Erestor shared a few stories as he sat in the cool evening and watched the stars slowly light the sky. Their pattern was different to that which he had known his entire life and this more than anything else told him how far out of his own time and space he had travelled. He felt strange and very alone with no sense of purpose other than to live on, endure, wait and see what the future held. He knew this feeling would pass, but right now all he wanted was to go home.

But they could never go back home again.

The room he had been given was simple but comfortable, with a bed, a chest of drawers, a chair, and a small nightstand, all made from an attractive blond wood. The canopied bed was unusual, an absolute square placed in the centre of the room, but it had crisp white sheets, a soft, coverlet and deep pillows. A floral painting occupied one wall, and a long, narrow window looked out onto darkness illuminated here and there by lanterns. After a long look outside, Erestor decided tomorrow was time enough to worry about his surroundings and drew the drapes.

A bowl of tepid water and something he took to be soap had been left on the washstand in the corner, and he washed himself down fairly thoroughly before getting into bed, clad only in an old grey shirt and, unusually for him, underpants. Just in case. Best to take nothing for granted.

He wrapped cold emptiness around the pain and sadness before it could overwhelm him, but it had been a long day: sleep came easily.


	2. Tol Eressea

The next morning, as he finished breakfast, officialdom found him in the form of a bored-looking elf with dull yellow hair. He was directed over by the girl who was going around filling cups with a woody-tasting tea that Erestor was sure he would eventually get used to. He loved coffee, which Imladris had imported for years by a circuitous route from the East, but it was a mortal crop and he supposed it had not reached the West. If it had, he was sure Rainano would offer it. The elf reached him and hovered. Erestor recognised him for what he was and waited, expecting at any moment to see a slate and stylus appear.

“Erestor of -- Imladris? I am Hweston, from the Office for Resettlement. We are tasked with assisting new arrivals in finding their families or, failing that, suitable accommodation and guiding them in the choice of interests to occupy them. For these purposes, I need to ask you a few questions.” On cue, a notebook appeared.

‘A few questions’ lasted through the end of breakfast and two cups of tea. By the time he was done, Erestor found himself wondering if unsuitable new arrivals were put on board a ship and sent back? But no, that was not possible. Sent to another, smaller, less favoured island perhaps, to live out eternity where they could do the least harm…. Erestor amused himself by imagining such a place and populating it for life with a selection of failed candidates from this haven of elven decorum. He had used his imagination to good effect before during long meetings or detailed discussions that had little or nothing to do with him, and no one had ever managed to catch him out. Well, Glorfindel, yes. It took one to know one, as they said.

Gods, he missed the blond with his cheerful humour and simple honesty that was far from simple.

His ‘mentor’, for so the bureaucrat had introduced himself, cleared his throat and Erestor gave him a limpid, wide-eyed look, for all the world as though he had not missed a word.

“Talent,” Hweston repeated. “Dance, sing, paint, recite? Proficiency is not a requirement. You will have more than enough time to master any talent you wish to acquire.”

“Why would I want to … learn a talent?” Erestor asked, bemused. The dining room was almost empty and he was starting to feel conspicuous.

His Mentor frowned, displeased. “Eternity is a long time, Erestor. It is as well to find interests to fill it, particularly as you have no wife or children to pass the time with.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea they were compulsory.” He had never quite been able to control the sarcastic edge to his tongue. Hweston, however, either ignored it or chose to take him seriously and squinted at him out of light green eyes.

“Of course it is not a requirement, but it is desirable. It gives ordinary elves focus and grounds them to a specific place. Without responsibility, you need interests to give your life shape.”

“I always found my work fulfilling, the day never seemed to have quite enough hours. “ Why he had never married was none of this person’s business, and he tried to make his tone dismissive. To his surprise, the hint was taken. Hweston moved on.

“Your work was of an administrative nature, I understand?” He made it sound surprising. “There is little call for such things here. Those of us who find this a calling are normally content to remain in our positions indefinitely. Perhaps you would enjoy spending time as a scribe, creating beautifully illuminated books? There was mention of a library.”

He sounded dubious. Erestor stared at him. “A scribe? I think not. The library was mainly a repository for history and science, which I oversaw rather than worked in. My hand is adequate though not exceptional and it was always a relief to have someone else taking notes.” He glanced at his cup, but it had been empty for some while and the girl with the teapot had vanished.

Hweston was apparently at a loss, because he seemed to gather himself before sitting back in his chair, putting the little notepad and strange-looking writing implement away into the bag hanging off his belt. “Perhaps I should return in a few days?” he suggested. “While you stay here and rest from your journey. I will make enquiries, there may be something that would – intrigue you. Or perhaps your family might come forward. Such things often take time.”

\-----o

Erestor went for a walk; it seemed the only answer to a morning that had begun this badly. The tea girl as he had come to think of her enthusiastically recommended the nearby ocean path above the beach. Or else, she added with less confidence, he might find a walk up into town interesting. He decided to settle for something familiar and went to have a look at the sea.

The path was easy to find. It was neatly laid out in teal grey gravel with a border of white crystals, each shape leading on to the next in a manner that must have taken an age to organise, and possibly had – there was an endless supply of time here and this would be as good a way as any of filling it. The thought horrified him beyond words. Perfectly trimmed ground cover grew neatly down to a line just above the sand, filling the air with soft herbal scents. On the other side of the path an identical slope led up to the cobbled street where he could hear horses and carriages passing on the way to unguessable destinations and the occasional brisk footsteps of a pedestrian.

The beach was a narrow strip of palest gold lapped by white-capped wavelets on an azure sea. It looked almost virginally untouched and was completely deserted. He entertained an impulse to go down and walk in that calm water but put it aside. There were no footprints, no driftwood, no errant strands of seaweed. This was a beach for looking at, he sensed, not for wading.

The sea stretched endlessly off into the east until it met and blended with the horizon, while the strange, empty strip of sand marched on ahead, pretty but discouragingly alien to someone who remembered well-used beaches busy with fishermen and children and sea birds. With a small shudder, Erestor decided to try the second option and take a look around Avallónë instead. He had no clear idea how big Tol Eressëa was, but he knew it was in essence a port town, the entry to the West from where newcomers dispersed to more permanent destinations. He followed the path back to where he recalled seeing a small flight of neat stone steps set into the bank and went up to the street.

The buildings opposite had an anonymous look about them, all narrow windows and double doors. They overlooked a beach of surpassing beauty yet appeared to be storage facilities, not homes. He took the next street up and followed it, turning right – he thought it might be north, but was unsure –trying to make his way towards where he thought the town centre should be. The silence of this street was unnerving and were it a town anywhere in Middle-earth he would be thinking of back tracking by now, unsure of his safety. But this was Elvenhome, not some eastern port city; there were no threats.

Eventually, by dint of following streets along and up, he found his way back to the busier part of town where carts and carriages passed him smartly, riders trotted past on tall, thin-legged horses, and the pavements bustled with activity. He recognised a few places as either taverns or hostelries of some kind, and there was a large outdoor market where the main items on offer seemed to be flowers and small carved figurines. Otherwise buildings of unfamiliar design fronted onto the streets and strangers came and went, not sparing him so much as a second glance.

He became slowly aware that he had no money, no idea of what passed for currency, and the only thing he seemed to have in common with the people hurrying around him was that they were all elves. He had no purpose, no plans, no home other than the inn, which he hoped he would be able to find his way back to. His family could be anywhere or nowhere. And the other person he had hoped against hope would be there to greet him was clearly otherwise occupied.

Or perhaps he had not yet been reborn. The idea had not occurred to Erestor before and it was like ice water trickling down his spine, stopping him in his tracks. He had been so sure… but no one knew how long it took, how many were given the opportunity, whether they were like Glorfindel, in his old form and with his old memories, or if it was more like the mortals in the east believed, that the soul returns time after time to a new form and a new family. Well, for elves there would probably only be one rebirth, but what if he looked different or had no memory of the past they had shared? What if he hadn’t been there waiting because he didn’t know?

Before he made himself crazy with the convoluted reasoning this new train of thought, Erestor decided it was time to stop thinking and go back to the inn. Perhaps in a day or two it would all start making sense, but right now this town with its delicate spires and open spaces had nothing to offer him. Failing which, he could always find out where Elrond was and go see if he was having any better luck at settling in.

\-----o

As it turned out, he had no need to go in search of Elrond, because his former lord was waiting when he arrived back at the inn. He had barely crossed the threshold when Rainano came hurrying up to direct him through to the garden courtyard and his waiting visitor. He was plainly embarrassed that he had not been able to explain where one of his guests was, so that Erestor caught himself almost apologizing for being thoughtless. Rainano had a good heart though, and took his responsibilities seriously. In that at least he was his father’s son.

Elrond looked tired but about a thousand years younger. Erestor guessed the energies of the Undying Lands were already starting to counter the draining effects of all those centuries of wearing the Ring of Air. He hoped it was having the same effect on Galadriel - she had started looking almost transparent towards the end. Elrond was wearing a blue and yellow robe that looked new and seemed to follow what he had seen of the local fashion. He rose at once from the bench and approached Erestor, hands held out. Somehow they ended up embracing, which was not a habit between them but seemed natural, almost comforting, in this strange new world.

Standing back, Erestor looked at the half-elf quizzically. “And so? You look well. Good family reunions? How are you liking it here so far?”

“Exhausting?” Elrond pulled a wry face as they sat down together on the bench. “People who are names out of history greet me like a long lost son, others are just curious about how a half-elf looks. I can see it in their faces though nothing’s said. Galadriel’s been wonderful – quite unlike herself. She’s introduced me to as many relatives as we seem to share out here, promised to take me with her to Tirion, even found out what my chances are of getting to see my parents.”

“There’s a problem about your parents?” Erestor tried to keep up with the flow of information but it was all starting to blur.

“They don’t generally welcome visitors apparently,” Elrond said, his tone neutral. “I… even as a child I was always aware they were one another’s world. Later I had a deal of sympathy for Dior when I heard his story, it was probably much the same for him on that island with Beren and Lúthien, the deathless lovers.”

“Idril and Tuor too?” offered Erestor. “In fact, all the great loves – I always thought they would be fairly self-involved. Not like real people, if you know what I mean.” Or people who had to keep their relationships secret and demonstratively get on with life.

“Oh, I’ve already met my Grandmother – Grandfather is off sailing somewhere. No, she’s wonderful, very warm and friendly. I don’t remember her of course, we were babies when they left. But she remembers us.” Elrond’s face became almost animated. “We had a long talk at the gathering last night, and she wanted to know everything about me and Elros and my family…”

His voice trailed off and he stared into the distance, his expression suddenly hurt and vulnerable. Erestor put a hand on his arm and made his voice firm. “Arwen made her choice with head as well as heart, my friend. And your sons will sail when it’s time. Glorfindel gave you his word and he would never break it.”

Elrond paused then nodded, taking up a similar tone. “Yes of course. He said if he had to knock them unconscious and load them on board, he’d do so.”

“And we both know he is more than capable.”

“Yes.”

They spent a moment each with his separate memories of the former lord of Gondolin, both smiling. If he said the twins were leaving, leave they would. Glorfindel always got his way in the end. Well, almost always.

Elrond was the first to move on from this. “What of you? Any luck with finding your family? And have they not sorted out a place for you to live yet? It’s a pleasant enough inn, but I thought they were supposed to be very efficient.”

“No family so far, and I think fussy is what passes for efficiency here,” Erestor said a touch grimly, before launching into the tale of his breakfast meeting with his Mentor. Elrond heard him out in silence, an expression of polite disbelief on his face. Erestor just managed to stop himself from pointing out this was probably the normal lot of those not directly related to royalty as Elrond was, several times over, both by blood and by marriage.

Which brought him to an obvious question. There was no diplomatic way of asking it, though the fact that he was the one to raise it, not Elrond, was its own warning. “What of Celebrían?”

Elrond’s lips compressed briefly and his eyes flickered to take in two elves walking along the other side of the courtyard. “There was no healing for her here,” he finally replied quietly. “She passed to the Halls shortly after she arrived, the final escape from the pain and horror of her memories. She…”

He stopped, cleared his throat. “She was reborn quite soon after, it seems, but she had asked – that she never recall the past. Lord Námo agreed to it, which seems to have surprised everyone. She lives outside Tirion, the very young daughter of a member of the king’s court. She has two older brothers and a sister – a large family for these days, they tell me. She always said she’d have liked a brother…”

He paused for so long that Erestor thought he had finished, but before the sound of the inn’s songbirds could become oppressive, Elrond added, “Galadriel and I will see her when we go to Tirion to greet the rest of the family. A casual encounter has been agreed to, just so we can both see she is… as well and as happy as they say.”

Despite the pain in his eyes, his tone was resigned. Glorfindel had been optimistic, a believer in his people’s ability to heal, but Elrond had always maintained that, for whatever reason, Celebrían was not waiting for him beyond the sea. He had done all he could to help her, but still his guilt had been great. And as for Galadriel…

“And the Lady?” Erestor asked softly.

Elrond stared up at the sky for a while, then said, “She said there are worse fates than being given a second chance. And at least she will be able to see she is well. Celeborn though… it will break his heart when he finally gets here. She was…”

“Her father’s joy, yes.” As Arwen was yours, passed unsaid between them. Galadriel had been less of a hands on parent, busy with political ambitions and exploring the world around her. Celebrían had once confided in him that she used to feel like she was interrupting something important if she needed her mother’s time. Celeborn though had doted on his only child. It may have begun as a form of compensation while Galadriel was busy playing mind games with the High King or Celebrimbor, but whatever the reason, the closeness was undeniable and his pain at her loss had been staggering.

Erestor had known her most of her life and had been very fond of Bri, the warm-hearted, delightfully normal daughter of exceptional parents. He was not sure what he thought of this second chance and wanted some time with the idea first before venturing an opinion. “Not a good homecoming, my friend,” he offered instead, resting a hand lightly on Elrond’s forearm.

Elrond raised an eyebrow slightly, nodded. “Home? I suppose so. I think this transition has been a mixed blessing so far for all of us.”

He made no mention of mutual acquaintances in the conversation that followed, and Erestor found it impossible to form the right words to ask without sounding desperate or over-eager. Still, had he seen someone formerly lost and known to them both, Elrond would surely have said.

\-----o

The day wound down slowly into evening. Elrond excused himself after a time, pleading dinner followed by another huge gathering of family and friends of family, most of whom had sailed over to the island specially to meet him. He asked if Erestor would like to join them, but the invitation was just a courtesy. One would need to be very hungry for company before other people’s family reunions started to look attractive.

Dinner was fish and vegetables again. The tea girl asked how he had enjoyed his walk and he spoke well of it, which made her happy though she wasn’t surprised – the beach, she said, was well-liked by everyone thereabouts. Rainano was absent and there was no one else he knew well enough to talk to. He recognised several people from around the Havens, but as seneschal of Imladris he had occupied a different world to theirs and on both sides they confined themselves to nodded greetings. He sat outside and watched the starlit sea for a while but the day had left him strangely tired – possibly due to the sea air – and he was ready for bed at an almost unheard of hour.

Once back in his room he resolved to read for a while after he had washed and changed. The water was once again tepid, making him wonder if it was brought hot and had cooled or if this was a preference here. Reminding himself to be sure to ask about bathing facilities in the morning, he put on the old grey shirt and got into bed.

His personal luggage held a good selection of reading matter and the book he chose was an old favourite, a selection of fables from the east, but tonight there was no comfort in it. Everywhere he had ever known was ‘east’ now, and further away than the moon. Finally he gave up and closed the book. Putting out the lamp, he lay on his back staring up at the ceiling and waited for the night to pass.


	3. Tirion

“But it’s a family matter, Elrond, I would be completely out of place.”

He had planned to spend the morning on one of the padded benches in the courtyard reading, but he was soon interrupted by Luntindo, who brought apologies for the delay and a promise that the rest of his baggage would be delivered later that afternoon. He had barely got back to his book when the sound of voices heralded Elrond’s arrival. He greeted Erestor with a still unaccustomed embrace, followed almost at once by an invitation to join him and Galadriel on a visit to Tirion where they were to be given a chance to meet Celebrían.

Elrond put down the tiny cup of pale green tea Erestor had just poured him and sat back on the bench, staring moodily across the courtyard to where the waters of a little terracotta fountain decorated with seashells danced merrily. His face was anything but merry. Physically he looked better than when they had embarked from the Grey Havens, but his eyes were still tired and watchful.

“Please don’t make me beg, Res,” he said in a weary voice. “Just come with me. Did you have something better planned?” His glance encompassed the discarded book and the otherwise deserted courtyard. “You were as close to Bri as anyone. And you must surely be curious to see fabled Tirion? After all the stories, even I quite wonder how it looks.”

Erestor was reminded of the determinedly persuasive boy he had known in ages past and sighed. He could put up a token resistance, he supposed, but knew he would concede in the end.

\-----o

Reaching Tirion proved more frustrating than Erestor imagined was the norm in this placid land. It was a short walk down to the harbour where they found Galadriel already waiting. She was pacing. It turned out they were too early and that the ferry would only leave at midday. They stood around for a while, looking across the bay at the purple mountains, and then Erestor made the best he could of the situation by offering them tea at his temporary lodgings.

Galadriel looked as she always did, a little pale, though not as ethereal as she had seemed during the last few years in Middle-earth, and with a tautness that seemed at odds with the peaceful surroundings, especially if you considered she had been born on this shore and by rights should have felt it as a homecoming, no matter how reluctantly. She was unusually quiet once they were seated on the terrace and tea was being brought. The news about her daughter so soon after the loss of her grandchild must have hit her hard.

Still, the normal ferry from Tol Eressëa seemed an unlikely return to the city of her birth for a king’s daughter. Carefully he said, “Your family will be eager to have you home, Lady. I was surprised to find you still here.” Not very diplomatic, and she had known him a long time, long enough to read the words behind the implied question.

She shrugged gracefully and said, “I wanted a few days alone before dealing with all those people I haven’t seen since I left. My father would have sent for me eventually, when he felt I’d had time to recover from the voyage. I decided to choose my own moment. There would have been no rush on his part,” she added by way of explanation, led perhaps by something she saw in Erestor’s face. “Time moves differently here, it always did, and a thing not done today can as easily be seen to tomorrow or next week. After all, we are here for as close to eternity as makes no difference…”

She sounded exactly the way he felt about that. Being an undying being in Middle-earth was one thing, the passage of the years broken and invaded by the rush and excitement of transient life, and there had been no time to get bored. He was not sure he would ever feel at home in a place where a long-sundered daughter could be allowed to stay within a few hours of her home and not eagerly be sent for. It must have been a hard parting, her choosing her uncle and brothers above her own father; he wondered if she was nervous of her welcome, even after so long.

The boat when it came sped gaily around the point of land sheltering the harbour and berthed neatly close to where they once again waited. It had glistening yellow sails of a stuff that bore no resemblance to the canvas Erestor knew from his time in Mithlond or indeed from the ship that had carried them to this place. They embarked, the only passengers, and took station at the forward rail. The water was mirror smooth and of a blue so deep as to be almost unnatural. Once they rounded the island, they could watch the rock walls of Valinor stretch ever-higher as they drew closer, looming over them in shades of purple and grey. Nothing grew on those unwelcoming heights, which reflected the still-unseen sun back in harsh shards of light as though polished. Erestor had never seen mountains that colour before, but then the Pelóri were not merely mountains, they were a Valar-created barrier against the dark.

The harbour at their destination made the one at Tol Eressëa look small and utilitarian, which it probably was. White stonework gleamed on all sides, while a reception area with delicate arches and intricate latticework formed a screen along the side where small, bright-sailed pleasure boats were moored. Two sturdy craft that had a working appearance – fishing vessels probably – were coming in to dock. They displayed an unfamiliar flag and he tried to make out the design. Elrond, following his eye, shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “It looks a little like drawings I’ve seen of Vanyaran devices, so perhaps some family owns a fishing fleet?”

“That emblem belongs to Glorfindel’s uncle,” Galadriel said, rousing herself from a pensive silence. “A Vanyar going into trade? Times have changed, for the better perhaps.” She pointed as they drew close to their berth. “There’s the path up to the city, and if you take the right turn you would eventually reach Alqualondë. It’s not too much of a distance from here. Tirion is further – I wonder if they still hire out horses?” She gave Elrond a glance that was as close to insecure as Galadriel was capable. “You will come with me, won’t you? To the palace, I mean. The last time I was here was a very long time ago, it will feel – strange.”

Elrond was staring straight ahead at the towering wall of rock and the regimented peaks marching back and along, except for the broad opening facing the dock. He spared Erestor a glance and a raised eyebrow but said nothing. Instead he answered his wife’s mother in a quiet, even voice. “I will be honoured to escort you to your grandfather’s house, Lady. The one thing I missed in Imladris was living near the sea. I would like to see Alqualondë.”

Instead of horses, there were shell-shaped carts that ran unaided along a silver rail towards the famous gap. Galadriel showed polite interest while the captain of their boat explained that all they need do was get in, sit down, and wait to be carried up to Tirion. She passed it off as a nice little invention that by chance had not existed in her time, then climbed in with unhurried grace and settled her skirts about her, waiting.

Elrond and Erestor exchanged looks, then Erestor stood back with faux courtesy to let him enter first. Elrond showed him the corner of a tooth in a gesture so like Gil-galad with an annoying councilor that it quite took Erestor’s breath for a moment. Then he followed Elrond into the open cart and closed the door. It vibrated for a moment and then moved off in a whisper of sound, following the silver track, the distant city in the gap drawing ever nearer.

“Never look surprised by anything,” Galadriel told them calmly. “Everyone so wants to impress us. As though we all lived in stone huts over there.”

“How does this work?” Elrond muttered, keeping his face still in case someone, somewhere was able to watch.

She shrugged. “I have not the slightest idea. But it certainly beats walking and I was worried when I could see nowhere to borrow horses.”

Erestor kept silent, remembering Ost-in-Edhil where he had lived and which had been the most technologically advanced elven city of its or any other time. Not quite mud huts, no, but nothing like this. The sense of the foreign, the alien, grew stronger. Would he ever find somewhere he would fit in this strange land?

The carts finally came to a stop at a gleaming granite platform. He could see as they reached the end of the line that there was a complicated system of pulleys involved in bringing the carts up, and no doubt sending them back down again, but there was no time to look as Galadriel and Elrond alighted the moment they stopped and set off with him trailing behind.

The road to Tirion, which the silver rails ran alongside, was unmistakable. While a few offshoots meandered off to left and right, it stretched ahead of them, a gleaming white way made from tiny blocks of stone slotted intricately one to the next like a long, incomprehensible puzzle. It was very even underfoot. Erestor, on pretext of adjusting a bootlace, felt it briefly and found it smooth and slightly warm to the touch. His boots were a good pair, finely tooled and made of softest suede, but they looked almost too functional for this exquisite surface.

The road passed between the walls of the Pelóri, banks of scented flowers and small, aromatic bushes on either side filling the air with rich fragrance, and Túna rose gently before them, topped by the gleaming spires and turrets of the fabled city of the Noldor. It was like a picture out of the stories he had been told as a child, but colder, less inviting than the memory retained by those who told their children and grandchildren about their homeland across the sea.

The famous steps, which rose in several levels of lustrous white, were as described, but one important fact had been omitted from all those tales of beauty and excellence.

“Slippery as Orthanc,” Elrond cursed, almost losing his footing for the umpteenth time. “Why would anyone choose a flight of stairs as slick as oil underfoot to reach a city atop a hill?”

“We always took one of the informal paths down the side of Túna when I was a girl,” Galadriel told him. She had her skirts delicately bunched and raised in one poised hand and seemed to be gliding up the steps, her back ramrod straight, her head held high. Erestor recalled the same pose from other occasions, none of them pleasant.

The effect, however, was wasted; the handful of elves who passed them barely glanced their way. Granted there had been quite an influx from over the sea lately, but he had expected more curiosity than this. Galadriel certainly looked important, and had the famous hair to go with it, while Elrond --- Erestor glanced at Elrond and saw they might have needed some fashion advice. His tasteful blue coat over grey pants looked almost deliberately subdued compared to the finery worn by passing elves.

They reached the top of the final flight of stairs without mishap and paused before massive gates thrown wide to the world. Erestor studied the view out over the harbour and across the bay to Tol Eressëa, no great distance away. He wondered if he could swim that far. Training for it might be a way to pass the time and would perhaps make Hweston happy. He assumed an absence of sharks.

Meanwhile, Galadriel and Elrond were in conference.

“Yes but if we’re presented to my father, possibly even my grandfather - your several times great-grandfather - we will be there for hours. We’ll never get away in time to see her. Shouldn’t we wait, do that first, and then deal with the palace afterwards?”

“Galadriel, they must already know we are here,” Elrond said patiently. Now the reality of reunions was imminent, Galadriel was being almost indecisive.

She gave an unladylike huff. “Elrond, I know how things work here. A time was arranged, we arrived later than planned, the meeting with my family will take hours, it is simply best to do a little sightseeing and then go directly to - to meet her. Otherwise we may miss her and have to do this all over again.”

Before Elrond was misguided enough to say what a father might expect of a long lost daughter, Erestor interjected softly, “Lady, I would certainly enjoy a small tour of the central parts of the city while we wait. Indeed, the ferry was so late that it has complicated everything. Your father does not have a formal reception planned, does he?”

Blue-green eyes offered a grateful look. “No, not really. Not that I know of? Just a public greeting in front of his household, I thought. So it’s settled then, Elrond? A walk around, a look at some of the main landmarks if they still remain, and then Rosewood Park at the arranged time – I can’t believe it’s still here after so long.”

“How does one tell the time here Lady?” It had been bothering Erestor since they arrived. “Everything is so different, even the light… especially the light.”

The smile did not reach her eyes. “Unnatural, isn’t it? It’s reflected sunlight from across the sea, nothing direct, so the shadows blur. Tol Eressëa confuses me too, but it should still be easy enough here because the bells still count down the span of the day as they always did. We should hear what would be called the noon bell back home soon. After which, we have an hour – or the equivalent of an hour here.”

“Like a city-wide clock?” Erestor asked.

“Exactly. Noldor efficiency at its best. And one of the few things Fëanor did not invent – he loathed the sound.”

\-----o

They wandered the streets of Tirion like the tourists they were, pointing and exclaiming at glittering pathways made from crushed gems, exquisite statuary, meticulously tended flowerbeds and baskets of blooms. They discussed the possible height of delicate turrets joined far above ground by elegant walkways. Galadriel pointed out the Mindon Eldaliéva, the Tower of Ingwe, that rose above the others, its light not active at this hour of the day. Privately Erestor found the predominance of white hard on the eye, but there were a few pastel greens, pinks, even lilacs mixed in to soften the effect. The ornamentation also offered colour, even if much of it was from silver and gold embossed on doorways, railings, curbstones. It was all a little overwhelming.

Aesthetics were everything, and nothing was left to chance, even the open places looked manufactured. There were small, grassy squares with benches under sheltering trees that looked to have been there for eternity, cafés where elves sat outdoors drinking and eating, a pretty square where entertainments were being performed; they paused there a while to watch a troupe of acrobats and jugglers go through their paces. The applause from those who stopped to watch was more polite than enthusiastic, which rather summed up the mood of Tirion to someone born in a louder, brasher place.

He was almost relieved when the bells sounded to mark the turning of the hour. He did not like to admit it, but he had seen as much of fabled Tirion as he needed for one day, In contrast he remembered the winding streets, the noise and rush of Minas Tirith when they had visited for Arwen’s marriage. He and Glorfindel with Elrond’s boys had spent days exploring the different levels, and never tired of it. He had felt more at ease in that city of Men than he did in this, his ancestral home.

They got turned around a little and it took Galadriel a few minutes to find her bearings, by which time the bells had died down. He thought he would need to get used to that sound on an hourly basis; it was a little too high pitched for his tastes. He could understand Fëanor’s dislike.

“They seem shriller than I recall, or perhaps it’s just that my ear for music has changed,” Galadriel said, echoing his thoughts. “I know where we are now,” she went on. “We go along there, follow the path with the sea-themed mosaics, and if nothing’s changed it should lead us directly to Rosewood Park.”

There was an undertone to her voice that could have been eagerness, anxiety, haste – possibly all three. They took the pathway of dull white stone, with fish, squid, shells and starfish picked out in little coloured tiles, passed a café and an outdoor exhibit of carvings done in pale blue stone, birds mainly, so exact that each feather seemed perfect. Elrond slowed down to look at them, in less hurry to reach their destination. Erestor touched his arm, wordless. Like Galadriel, he needed to do this so that he could move on. To what, Erestor was not quite sure.


	4. Brethil

The park stood a little back from the path and was entered through a simple white archway decorated with a few geometric swirls and angles drawn into the rock. The small parks they had passed had all been neatly manicured with massed beds of flowers and paths laid out in carefully considered symmetrical design. This was different. Soft grass studded with tiny multi-coloured flowers grew under spreading trees, the pathways wound off under heavy boughs, flowers grew, but in little clumps or separately, not laid out in rows. 

Water was falling somewhere, the sound blending with the soft rustle of leaves and the crunch of their footsteps on gravel that was made up of tiny pieces of jasper, tiger’s eye, garnet… reds, golds, oranges, warm colours, almost but not quite like the winding paths that had linked so much of Imladris once you left the Last Homely House and went down into the valley proper…

“… beside the fountain,” Galadriel was saying in a flat voice. She walked slightly ahead of them, her shoulders straight. Erestor saw Elrond reach a hand to her and then let it drop. She might as well have been wearing a sign saying ‘don’t touch me’. 

The path led to a pool, hexagonal in shape, its low wall made from blocks of honey-coloured stone. Pale pink and yellow water lilies floated on the surface, and four perfectly carved white dolphins faced one another at what might be the cardinal points, though he still found it hard to be sure of direction. Out of their mouths water leapt in a glittering shower that fell cheerfully into the pool below. 

Rose bushes grew around the fountain, lending their fragrance to the scented green of the garden. The path went round and continued straight ahead. The trees were trimmed well back, perhaps to avoid leaves falling into the water, and there were small wooden benches and conveniently placed tree stumps just the right size to serve as seating. 

They were not alone. Coming down the path towards them was a family group, talking and laughing. Erestor saw Elrond take a deep, deep breath and realised his need for touch had been less for Galadriel’s comfort than his own. Moving closer he rested a casual hand on Elrond’s arm and said, “Perhaps we should take a seat, let this play out as naturally as possible.”

As it turned out, there was no time. Galadriel had stopped dead, so the best Erestor could think to do was pretend an interest in the dolphins. A woman, a man and three young elves, two boys and a girl, approached the fountain. Catching sight of them, the woman said something to the man and drew closer to him, though the younger elves remained unaware and continued a laughing discussion of which Erestor was embarrassed to only understand perhaps one word in four. He supposed his Quenya would modernize and improve out of all recognition soon.

They passed the fountain, the younger members of the party exclaiming at the dolphins and going to dabble their fingers in the water. The woman, perhaps their mother, clearly a relative, remained beside them, while the man continued until he reached Galadriel, where he stopped.

“Princess Artanis?” His voice was polite and held a touch of query. 

Galadriel looked at him stonily. “The name I bring back from the Hither Land is Galadriel, one of my husband’s many gifts,” she corrected him in glacially-correct Quenya. “And I prefer the title ‘Lady’, which I have held for so long.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me, I was told. I am Fárëon. You might no longer recall, but I had already been presented at your grandfather’s court before the… before you - left. We met once or twice?” His eyes were worried and a little sad, and the look he gave her was almost one of pleading. A courtier unaccustomed to deception was a new thing to Erestor, who had seen more than his share of court life and masks in the old days in Lindon. 

Her eyes remained cool and watchful, but Galadriel moderated her tone a little. “The name is familiar,” she conceded. “But it was all a very long time ago and much has passed since then. This is your family?” She indicated the group by the fountain with a minute inclination of her head.

Water tinkled and a boy laughed in the space between her question and his reply. “My sister and her children, my lady,” he replied at last. “One of their rare trips to the city. I thought a visit to this park near my home would amuse them.” He turned and held out a hand to his sister, and his smile tried to reassure. “Nurtamiel, come and meet Her Highness… the Lady … Galadriel.” He stumbled on the name; Erestor thought his Sindarin was probably weaker than Erestor’s Quenya. 

The woman came forward slowly, and her sons both turned to look, alerted by body language or the faint air of tension that was slowly building amongst the adults. The girl had leaned out over the water, looking down. Fish, Erestor thought. She’s looking for fish. The pose was so like Arwen that it twisted his heart. Her mother meanwhile touched fingers to forehead and bowed her head to Galadriel. “Lady,” she said. “These are my sons, Sanar and Mórion.” She spoke slowly, making it simpler for a non-Quenya speaker to follow. “And – my daughter, Brethil. 

One of the boys gave his sister a discreet shove and she turned at her name. She had light brown hair with golden streaks and very clear, fair skin. Her face was a little broad with a small, straight nose, soft eyebrows that traced a perfect arch under a wide, untroubled brow – and Celebrían’s eyes, clear blue, ever-sparkling. Erestor became aware the birds were still singing and the water falling, and that he had placed an unconscious hand on Elrond’s back. 

Fárëon seemed even more worried, while Nurtamiel looked ready to cry. After the merest glance at the girl who had once been her only child, Galadriel took charge of the situation. “Nurtamiel, how nice to meet you. And your family. I do faintly recall your brother of course, though it was a long time ago. This is my daughter’s husband, Lord Elrond, and an old friend from across the sea, Erestor. We were exploring Tirion a little before going to greet my father.”

“You’re from Endórë?” one of the boys asked, eyes wide and eager. His uncle tried to hush him, but Elrond took his cue from Galadriel and gave him a friendly smile. 

“We are, yes. We only arrived a few days ago. This is my first visit to Tirion. I suppose you know it quite well?”

He was not looking directly at the girl, but stood at the right angle to keep her in his line of sight. The boy, Sanar, shook his head. “We live outside the city, sir, we only visit now and then. My father comes to court often though,” he added, apparently worried about sounding provincial. Erestor could remember how that felt, although his youth had been a very long time ago. 

Galadriel, polished, royal and gracious, now turned to Brethil. Someone who knew her less well would miss the steel in her eyes, he hoped. “And are you enjoying your visit to Tirion, my dear? Have you been presented at court yet? Do they still do that?” she added on an afterthought, addressing it to Nurtamiel.

“I like visiting Tirion, my lady,” Brethil said before her mother could answer. “We went to watch the cloud dancers this time and they were lovely. We want to look at dress designs for my presentation this time, though that won’t be quite yet, not till after my begetting day.” She spoke earnestly to Galadriel, no trace of shyness about her. 

She had no idea Galadriel was royal, of course, Erestor realized, no reason to be overawed by anything more than her beauty. And she was comfortable with strangers, which he always associated with well-loved children who had been raised to know they were valued.

“Perhaps your mother will let me know when the time comes,” Galadriel said. “If I’m in Tirion, I’d quite like to attend. Tell them to show you yellow fabric – it’s young and fresh and it would work well with your complexion.”

Yellow had been Celebrían’s favourite colour, but it was an ill match for her moonlit colouring so she never wore it, though it was a regular theme throughout her home. But it would look well with that sunkissed brown hair.

“One of the best parts of being young is that you can look good in almost anything,” Elrond said, a courtier’s mask on his face, his voice smooth as silk. He smiled at the girl. “And it’s your special day, so be sure and wear something that makes you smile when you remember it.”

“Amil said I should wear white, which was the old tradition,” she told him laughing, “but Atar said a little colour would brighten up the court and to suit myself. Just not red or purple.”

He laughed with her, then reached out and took her hands in his. It was a forward gesture from a stranger, but they were from the barbaric East, so Erestor hoped she would put it down to foreign customs. “That’s good, wise advice,” Elrond was saying to her. “Like the Lady, I hope to be there when you’re presented. Meanwhile, enjoy your visit here.”

Bretil flushed a little, looking down, her extreme youth very apparent. “Thank you, my lord. I’m sure I will. And it would be lovely if you and the Lady were there…”

“I look forward to meeting you again,” Elrond said, releasing her hands and stepping back. “All of you, of course.”

The boys were looking uncertainly at their uncle, aware something was not right but not sure what. Fárëon hovered, uncertain what to do, reluctant to interrupt but knowing he needed somehow to be part of the conversation. Erestor took a breath and forced his brain to work. “It’s all rather strange at the moment,” he said, taking care not to emphasise the double meaning: no need to be heavy handed about it. “So this was a pleasant chance, meeting an ordinary family, my first in Tirion.”

Fárëon almost beamed with relief. “A great deal of adjustment, yes, so I have heard. I hope you have been enjoying the city this far, Lord Erestor?”

“Master will do.” He used the Sindarin word. “And yes, it’s quite exceptional. Is there something you can recommend for us to look at next? Well, me at any rate. Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel will be waiting on her father when we leave here.”

“You should go up to the lake, it’s not at all far from here,” Brethil said at once. “It’s beautiful and there are singing birds and lots of little places to stop and eat.” She smiled at him, giving him the full benefit of blue eyes so like those he remembered from another time and place. Erestor looked into them and for a moment he could say nothing because the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He had known her far longer than Elrond, since she was a child in Ost-in-Edhil… 

He smoothed his face and swallowed, untold centuries of training coming to the fore. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he said in careful Quenya. “Thank you, Brethil. I think that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“We really shouldn’t keep you like this,” Galadriel said in a neutral voice, her smile taking in everyone and no one. “It was a pleasure meeting you and your family, Nurtamiel, and I’m sure we’ll run into each other again sooner or later. I recall Tirion was always a lot smaller than it looked.”

Goodbyes were said in a hurried jumble of voices and Fárëon shepherded his sister and her family on towards the entrance. The boys turned back to wave, smiling, but Brethil was walking beside her mother, engaged in an animated conversation: she did not look back.

Erestor did the unthinkable: he took Galadriel by the elbow, led her to the nearest bench, and made her sit. She obeyed, unresisting, and sat very still, staring at the water droplets striking rainbows in the sun. Erestor remembered the mist from the waterfall at home, and had to blink hard. He turned to Elrond, ready to do whatever needed doing, but he was standing with his arms folded, apparently studying a tree. Feeling eyes on him, he looked at Erestor and shrugged before going to crouch down in front of Galadriel.

“She’s well,” he said firmly. “Well and happy. Loved.”

“She didn’t know us.” Her voice was pale and thin, barely holding onto control.

Elrond nodded. “No, she didn’t. And if she does not remember, it is because she cannot. Think of it – you, me, Erestor who she has known her whole life. If that wasn’t enough to reach who she used to be, then nothing ever will.”

“And you are so calm?” Erestor registered the edge, and waited for her to start shouting. He had worked for her many years ago and it was a byword in her house that if the Lady raised her voice, it was time to be very busy elsewhere.

Elrond rose to his feet. “I am calm, yes. I wanted her healed. The healing did not come from my hands, my knowledge, but I still wanted her healed. Should I begrudge her the medicine that was called for? Do you remember how she was before she sailed? She lost her memory, yes, but she gained a life.”

“And she will never be Celebrían again.”

“You knew that,” he said almost gently. “You just hoped against hope. The soul never dies or changes, Galadriel. She will always be who she is, who the One made her to be. But I’ve learned a hard lesson over the years – from my parents, from my brother, even from my daughter. Like it or not, sometimes loving means having to move on and let them go.”


	5. The Lady

They left Rosewood Park in silence and followed Galadriel back to the centre of the city. There was no uncertainty now, she knew where she was going as if she had never left home. She walked in long strides, almost a glide, and after a good look at her face Erestor kept his eyes averted: she wore the same expression he recalled from the day she had thrown down the walls of Dol Guldur, perfection sculpted in ice.

At the imposing entrance to the palace they parted company. Erestor knew Elrond would much prefer to go exploring with him after meeting Brethil and her family, where there would be no pressure on him to smile or even speak if that was what he wanted, but he could hardly leave Galadriel alone to deal with a major family reunion right then. Instead they arranged where to meet afterwards and at what time and Erestor quietly wished them luck.

They had barely finished speaking when a glittering personage, dressed in similar garb to the guards flanking the entrance, came bustling over to sweep the long lost princess and her law-son inside. Erestor was amused for the first time in hours and also intrigued by the guards. He assumed they were for show only and as a mark of respect, not in fact to protect the royals from some popular threat, though the idea of Noldor insurrection wasn’t unheard of or unknown.

Alone on the streets of Tirion, Erestor was now free to wander at will. The square fronting the palace was the first place they had attracted any real attention from passersby, so he retraced their steps with some haste to get away from it. Galadriel had supplied the directions to Brethil’s lake so he made his way back to the marine street, as he was calling it to himself, then followed that up towards the mountain. 

People passed him, mainly going in the opposite direction, all of them seeming intent upon some task or destination and without a second glance for an outsider. After a while he started wondering if this was due to lack of interest or was a local tradition of some kind. He decided on the latter: one glance should have been enough to tell anyone he was out of place.

The lake turned out to be an artificial construct, absolutely round with grey-blue water and pretty wooden walkways along the edge, interspersed at intervals by grassy banks. A few couples were out rowing in flat-bottomed boats with bright little sails that could only have been for show as there was no wind to fill them. Otherwise the surface was still. 

There were wooden steps down to mooring spots, nicely camouflaged with screens and trailing greenery. A trellis supported a vine with bright flowers, and singing birds clustered on it, harmonising. Erestor went closer, moving carefully so as not to startle them, but they ignored him and went on with their song. There was no cage, nothing to keep them from flying away, but he knew without being told that they would stay because this was their place.

It all felt contrived and rather depressing, especially right after the bittersweet meeting with the girl who had been Celebrían. Erestor almost regretted not encouraging Elrond to come with him. They could have felt lost together.

There were a number of places that he equated with cafés amongst the flower-studded bushes and little stands of beech trees that surrounded the lake. Erestor had some coin now, little white and silver disks for use on the mainland only, a way of keeping the balance correct between Aman proper and the island. Hweston had explained this carefully, glancing at him occasionally as though uncertain he would understand the concept of ‘money’. Erestor had smiled nicely and kept quiet in case it turned out to be more complicated than it seemed at first hearing. 

He chose a café at random, one near the songbirds that did not seem too busy, and took a seat. The tables were small and round, suitable for two people, with a highly polished surface he could dimly see his face in. The chairs were unexpectedly comfortable, subtly padded. 

A young man he had seen serving the other patrons hurried over as soon as he settled into his seat and smiled brightly at him. “Good afternoon. My name is Térandil and it will be my honour to attend to your needs. What can I fetch for you?”

Somehow Erestor hadn’t decided how to manage this part of it, but he could still think on his feet. “Tea, thank you Térandil,” he said, trying to match the server’s brightness. 

Térandil looked even happier. “Tea? Of course. Would you like jasmine, lemongrass, meadow spun, lotus, plains or seaweed?”

Erestor hadn’t a clue, and none of them sounded like the regular beverage at the inn. “Surprise me,” he suggested. “Something not too bitter.”

Térandil blinked but recovered immediately. “Of course, sir. Meadow spun perhaps?”

“That would suit me, yes.” It sounded harmless and his spoken Quenya was already being stretched.

He sat back and watched the light shimmering on the lake and the motion of the little boats. The whole scene had a sense of unreality, like a waking dream. The colours were a little too firm, the air too clear and the floral odour might equally have come from scented candles. There was a buzz of voices, pitched higher than he was accustomed, which seemed to be common over here on the mainland. So many people had passed through or settled on Tol Eressëa, he supposed, that at least some Eastern habits had taken hold. For example, everyone he had so far met could speak Sindarin, which he doubted was the case here.

Térandil brought his tea and a little biscuit with a sugary dusting on it and he could finally relax and watch the people going past while he sipped something that tasted disturbingly green. The parade along the lake front showed him with absolute clarity that he was no longer at home. It was not just the way they all completely ignored one another, which he was starting to think might be their version of being polite, but also something in the way they moved and the strange clothing and hair styles affected by both men and women. There was also the occasional being that walked in human form but radiated a diffuse yellow glow that made him wonder if these were Maiar in their true state, but there was no one there to ask.

He was following one such with his eyes, the third that had passed, when a soft, delicately accented voice said, “Erestor? How nice to see you here. May I join you?”

Erestor had not seen the girl approach. She was short and slight with a mass of soft brown hair and bright hazel eyes set in a sweet, youthful face. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Well, I know you so of course we must have met,” she told him with a winning smile. Erestor stared, quite sure he had never seen her before in his life. He would have remembered. She took the chair opposite as Térandil came hurrying out. He plainly knew who she was, greeting her with a small, very respectful bow. She gave him a happy smile. “Hello, Térandil. Apricot nectar for me, please. And a bowl of lava bites to share would be nice.”

As soon as they were alone she turned those bright eyes on Erestor and nodded as though he had spoken. “It must all be very confusing right now. Even the food is different. Like being in a foreign land where everyone expects you to feel at home, yes?”

Something tight in Erestor’s chest threatened to respond to this kindness. He reminded it that this woman, no matter how sweet and empathetic, was a stranger. “It is all new, yes. Even for those born over here, because it’s been a very long time. As for the rest of us… I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me though, I don’t seem to recall your name.”

“Oh, you do,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “You just forgot it for a little while, that’s all. Why Térandil, that was so quick. Thank you. I think you might enjoy these, Erestor.”

She pushed a shallow bowl into the middle of the table between them and smilingly gestured for him to help himself. Lava bites turned out to be little straw coloured nuggets with a bread-like texture and a bright, savoury taste. He stored the name away so he could ask for them again.

“Very lightly seasoned foods are the fashion right now,” she explained to him. “It’s popular to be able to discern all the different natural flavours in a dish without interference from additions. I love salt the way others love sugar, so I always ask for these.”

“That explains a few things. I wondered why everything tasted so plain.”

“When in fact, it was the best and most modern cuisine poor Rainano could offer you.”

He stopped with his cup halfway to his lips. “You know where I’m staying?” 

“Oh yes, I try and find out where all the new people are staying in case they need my help with anything. New beginnings are always difficult, especially when they weren’t deliberately chosen as part of a grand adventure.” She ate another of the lava bites delicately and sipped at her juice. “I can often weave the right people together to solve a problem, so that is what I try and do.”

“Sometimes there aren’t solutions,” Erestor said, thinking of Celebrían. “Sometimes you just have to keep on until it makes sense again.”

She nodded. “Very true. But when people feel lost, often all they need is to find a space, a little support. You are very good at being that, of course, so you will know what I mean.”

“I was good at that at home, where I knew how everything worked and who to speak to if I needed to get something done. Here – I know no one here and understand less.” He was embarrassed by the way it sounded; he had never been one to whine.

She reached across and placed her hand over his. It was small and capable, the tips of her fingers slightly roughened in a way that was familiar and touched a memory he could not quite recall. “But you will learn, because you are good at that. And in the learning, you can help others. But to do that, you need to be strong within yourself, with a purpose.”

“We have no purpose here,” he said softly. “I think that’s why it’s all such a shock. We had purpose and now we are – here, scattered, directionless.”

“As has happened to others,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze before drawing back, her tone brisk now. “Some sit on the beach and watch the waves or walk in the forests and count the leaves on the trees. But some find deeper resources within.”

Erestor watched the next couple walk past, turning the little delicacy around in his fingers. “I could always find things to put my hand to,” he said finally. “But when I’m told I need to find a hobby to keep me busy...”

“Hweston means well,” she said, laughter in her soft voice, “but he is not as you are. Put in an unfamiliar situation, he is one of those who would watch the waves break until someone told him what to do. I do not know why they use mentors who have not been in the east. How can they possibly understand what you need? Fortunately, not everyone is counting the leaves on the trees.”

A mellow golden glow caught his eye before he could ask what she meant and another of the beings he had wondered about earlier came past. He watched for a moment, then turned back when he felt her eyes on him and said quickly, trusting her not to laugh, “That person... I sound as though I lived my life under a rock, I know, but is that one of the Maiar? The way he glows...” 

She shook her head, serious. “No, the Maiar look the same as you or I. Remember Olorin? Though usually younger than the form he took. What you are seeing is an ancient elf whose fëa has begun to consume his body. In time he will be wholly energy, and when that time comes he will possibly go to the Halls of Silence or to one of the quiet places the formless favour.” 

It felt as though someone dropped cold water on him. He had heard of this, of course, but it had never seemed real, and certainly not something that might one day apply to him. Like fading, becoming part of the energy that pulsed within Arda... He shivered. 

She was finishing her nectar and moved the bowl of lava bites over to him before rising gracefully. “It takes a long time and I never knew a fëa that did not take that road willingly. Now - the day passes, and there is still so much I must do before dark. But I’m glad I found you and that we could talk for a while.”

Erestor rose when she did, about to take her arm and ask her to stay a while longer, but something held him back. Instead he said, “You never gave me your name or told me where I could find you?”

She laughed, a young, merry sound. “I will find you if you need me. Meanwhile, go and start making a new home. Though perhaps that new home will come and find you instead. Stranger patterns have been woven.”

Erestor watched her cross the grass to rejoin the path and hurry back along the way he had come, quick movements putting him somehow in mind of a little bird. He looked up as Térandil approached, his eyes also following her even while he reached for the empty glass. He smiled at Erestor, his face alight with pleasure. “She is so wonderful. I’d seen her a few times but not met her before, and yet she knew my name.”

Feeling that he was missing an important point somewhere, Erestor said, “She was very kind and friendly, yes. She said I knew her name but I still cannot recall that we’ve ever met. Who is she?”

Térandil gave him a disbelieving look and then seemed to realise this might be a reasonable question from someone new to the civilised West. “Why, she is Lady Vairë,” he said. “The Doomsman’s wife. She who they call the Weaver. It is not into tapestries alone that she weaves fate, I’ve heard. Sometimes, they say, her approach is more – direct.”


	6. Routines

It was late afternoon and Erestor was at the end of the garden putting down crumbs for the birds. He did this every day now that he was learning to estimate the time better, the first of a series of little routines he was trying to build for himself to replace those that were forever gone. He knew Rainano thought he was a little strange, but then everyone recently arrived from over the sea was looked at that way. The unspoken question behind the stares was why anyone would have chosen to live through such dangerous times when there were boats at the Havens and fair sailing onto the Straight Road?

The birds, unused to being fed, had been confused to begin with, but were taking to their daily feast with the kind of single mindedness most birds brought to food. Erestor sat with them to see off the gulls who would dispossess anyone, and because they made him smile with their raucous feuds and jockeying for position. 

Very little else made him smile right now. 

He had not seen Galadriel since the silent ferry ride back from the mainland. She and Elrond had stood at the rail, each busy with their own thoughts, while Erestor left them alone and mulled over the Weaver’s words, especially the part about making a new home. He had no idea how he was meant to go about that, because home was a place filled with people who mattered and objects one liked, gathered over time. He had books and a few precious things he had been unable to leave behind, but now he was here he had no idea what he would do with them. 

The inn felt positively welcoming after Tirion. Rainano had a string of questions about Tirion upon Túna, most of which Erestor had no answer to, though he tried to recall as best he could the hairstyles that had caught his eye and remember if there had seemed a predominant colour for clothing. He described the little lava bites he had eaten hopefully but they were new to Rainano as well.

“Some things take a while to reach us here from the mainland, Master Erestor,” he admitted, his normally cheerful expression almost downcast for a change. Unlike the average host back in Middle-earth, Rainano genuinely seemed to hate disappointing a guest. “But I’ll be sure and watch for them. I can ask one of the ferrymen if he knows anything about where I might find them.” 

It was Erestor’s first real introduction to the huge gulf that existed between Tol Eressëa, formerly the home of simple Telerin fishermen and now the haven for returning Noldor without good family connections - like himself – and unsure Sindar, who had been coming across in small groups since the beginning of the Second Age. Despite being not much further from the mainland than Balar had been back in the old days, in spirit it was more like the difference between Third Age Edoras and Minas Tirith. 

He was not in quite the same situation as other Noldor without good family, of course. He had Elrond, although after the visit to Tirion he daily expected both Elrond and Galadriel to move over the bay to be closer to their extended family. So far nothing of the sort had happened. They were still here, Elrond at the lodgings that had been arranged temporarily for him, with the harbour view and excellent service, while Galadriel had the use of someone’s house - Elrond was not clear whose.

“She was disinclined to share that piece of information,” he said when Erestor finally thought to ask. “And as right now she isn’t talking to anyone, and I’m not about to gossip about her with the staff at my lodgings, finding out would be difficult.”

Galadriel had returned from Tirion and shut herself off from the world. Visitors were turned away without explanation, although her maid admitted to Elrond that she had orders to take names: the Lady must want to keep track of who had made the effort. Erestor would have laughed, but he respected the pain that seeing Celebrían had brought, and the strength she had called up to make sure young Brethil was not alarmed by the meeting. Apparently the reunion with Finarfin had not gone well either, which must have been the final blow at the end of a fraught day.

Elrond had dealt better with seeing the girl who had once been Celebrían, but then he was no stranger to personal loss and hads his way of dealing with it, including the right public face. There was no public face required with Erestor, they had known one another too long for such things, but even when they were alone it seemed a matter more of regret and wistfulness for what might have been than actual pain. He had been forced to come to terms with losing her centuries before, mourning her with a sharp, inconsolable grief that had taken a long time to run its course.

Erestor grieved for the Celebrían of memory, but did so quietly. The only person he could talk to about her was Elrond, and he could hardly do so without implying their loss was equal. Once again he missed Glorfindel. He would have understood and they could have tried to make sense of it together. 

He was no closer to finding a place to live than he had been on the day of his arrival. The inn was the nearest thing to it, but the inn was only a pause on the road and he knew it. Elrond talked about them remaining together, keeping the friendship forged through centuries strong and current, but Elrond was almost as clueless as Erestor when it came to deciding where next. The only difference really was that he had the family connections to be able to pick and choose. Erestor for his part was ambivalent about following him, trying to decide if that made Elrond still his lord – and if he did in fact still have a lord – or if it just made him look dependant.

“I see you’ve made some new friends? Can’t say much for their table manners.”

Erestor stopped looking back over the past week or however long they had been there and grinned at Elrond, who was watching him from a small distance, trying not to alarm the birds. The few that were still feeding swooped up anyhow into the safety of the open air, alarmed when Erestor got to his feet, brushing loose grass from his pants. “You just wrecked their dinner. That’s another new robe, isn’t it?”

Elrond looked down at himself, shrugged. “That’s my grandmother’s doing. She keeps sending clothes, as though I landed here destitute. But it’s a kind thought and now I don’t look too exotic when the family comes calling. As they are tonight. Galadriel’s come out of her mourning and invited everyone to dine. At least half the crowd who were here to greet the White Ship are on their way over – there’s quite a little fleet of boats on the horizon. I came to invite you. May as well get used to them.”

“If I’m to stay with you, you mean?” Erestor smiled and shook his head. “Elrond, I’m in no mood for a party.”

Elrond gave him a level look. “Do you think I am?”

Erestor had reached him now. He sighed, took Elrond’s arm and started up to the courtyard. “No, of course not, but unlike you I can decline and no one will care much.”

“There are people who know you and don’t understand why you’re keeping so much to yourself. You’re not the only one who hasn’t found somewhere to live yet, you know.”

“When it’s more about those people, I’ll come with pleasure,” Erestor promised him. “The closest I have to family right now are the ones who crossed the sea with us. But not your extended kin and their friends, please. I had a look at them when we arrived and it would be like being back at court in Mithlond.”

“You were always damn good at that,” Elrond pointed out. “They used to ask me how you and Gildor were related.”

“There’s a warning about picking your friends with care,” Erestor said dryly and they both laughed. “Especially when the friend is disreputable royalty. Where did he vanish off to, do you know? He must have gone over to the mainland the day we arrived.”

“He took some of his people off to get them settled. I didn’t have time for details. Afterwards I was sorry I never asked more. He’ll be back soon to see where we are. It’s his way – curious as a cat.”

They reached the courtyard and Erestor continued over to one of the benches. There was a glass of wine waiting on a small table beside it. Elrond raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

Erestor gave him a half smile. “It’s my new evening routine. Before dinner, I feed the birds, have a glass of wine and watch the light change. Yes it’s boring. But the things I miss most are the things I used to chafe against the most – boring routine.”

Elrond hesitated. “Please come to dinner, Erestor. You’re making me nervous. An elderly elf having his glass of wine every night before dinner?”

“Well, I’m not exactly young, am I?” Erestor refused to be baited. “And there are worse habits – I just can’t seem to pin them down to cultivate yet. Go to your party. Get to know a few more people. Ask me again when there’s less of a crowd and more familiar faces. Meanwhile I’ll just stay here and be elderly.”

Elrond left, shaking his head, and Erestor settled down to enjoy his wine. Dinner later was a vegetable casserole and some quite good bread. There were fewer guests than when he had arrived, so he could spend a while chatting with the tea girl, whose name he now knew was Líssië. She was young, locally born, and, he discovered, worried.

“I don’t know what I’ll do after this,” she confided to him. “It’s the work I always wanted – to meet new people, make them comfortable, hear stories about life on the far shore. I don’t have any great gifts, so service was always the best road for me, but soon the ships will stop sailing in from the East, and then – I don’t know what will become of the inn.”

There had been no reason for Erestor to think of this till now, but of course she was right. And Rainano was young enough for this to be his first venture, so he must be trying to imagine a future without it as well. “Couldn’t it remain a hostelry for visitors from the mainland?” he hazarded. “Somewhere to stay the night, with a bit of rustic charm and ambience.”

Líssië stared at him blankly; he had evidently suggested a new concept. The idea gave him a perverse satisfaction after all the new things he had been forced to assimilate in the past few days. “I – don’t know there’d be much call for that,” she said carefully. “There’ve been more visitors from the mainland since your ship docked than we’d normally see in a yén. Tonight as well, so many. Some even came up from the harbour in carriages – they must be important.”

Erestor hid a smile. “Some of them probably are,” he agreed. “They’re visiting a royal princess, after all. And there’ll be more ships still, and she doesn’t seem in a hurry to join her father’s household in Tirion, so nothing will change right away. Don’t worry – perhaps Rainano already has plans. If not, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

He had no idea when it had become his problem, but solving things for people was what he had done for a large part of his life. There were worse habits than that, too.

Later, after Líssië had gone to get on with her work, he rounded the evening off with a walk down to the harbour to look at the ships bobbing at anchor and breathe in the familiar smells of tar and salt and fish. She was right, soon there would be no more ships coming out of the east and the final thread linking him to home would fray and split. No more old friends to exclaim over, no more news, no little delicacies everyone else had forgotten to pack. No more whispers of home.

After a time he headed back to the inn and bed. It took an effort of will not to take another glass of wine up to his room, but that was one habit that, if started, might prove harder than most to stop.


	7. The King

He had fallen into a deep sleep and was dreaming of the forest around Imladris. He was walking through it, searching for a dragon’s egg. One of the twins was with him, still very young, and this was a kind of treasure hunt. He could hear distant banging as though someone was chopping down a tree, which happened only under controlled circumstances in the hidden valley, and followed the sound through bushes, pushing aside brambles and branches…

He woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the unfamiliar bed. It was still dark outside, and someone was knocking on the door.

Erestor sat confused for a minute trying to adjust to his surroundings, then pushed back the covers and hurried across to the door, the shirt brushing the tops of his thighs. He turned the handle, his mouth open, the words forming, and found his eyes at chin level to a tall, broad-shouldered elf with springy, almost curly dark hair.

“Damn it! I spent half the night hearing people ask about the dark haired beauty Elrond arrived with before someone asked your name and my aunt gave it. I’d never have thought to look for you. You’re the stubbornest elf alive, I was sure you’d stay till the last ship sailed.”

Erestor stared blankly. After a moment time and place seemed to dawn on the former high king of the Noldor in the east, because Gil-galad said more calmly, “Did I wake you? It’s – the party ran late, yes.”

Stepping back slowly, Erestor retreated into his room, heart thudding. Ereinion Gil-galad, big, solid, no longer dark ash on a shattered mountainside, entered and closed the door behind him, shutting out the dim light cast by the hallway lantern.

“Light?” he asked, waiting.

Erestor came back to himself abruptly, hand scrabbling around on the night stand seeking the strange, streamlined tinder and flint. He lit the small lamp with its shade of finely rubbed alabaster, and soft yellow light filled the room. Gil-galad looked around, frowning. “Where is everything? Is this all you brought with you?”

“The rest of my bags will come later, when I find somewhere more permanent… apparently Círdan’s arranged storage for several of us.” Erestor was still trying to keep up.

The name was a mistake. Gil-galad bristled, his voice rising. “Círdan? I don’t know what happens in my foster father’s head some days, he must be getting senile. Why did he not tell you where I was? What are you doing at an inn anyhow?”

Erestor finally felt the bed against the backs of his knees and sat. “Gil, it’s been --- three and a half thousand years? I would hardly presume, and as for Círdan, you know he never approved… You weren’t there to greet me so I drew the logical conclusion which is that you chose not to resume our - liaison.” It was like someone else was speaking and he was on the outside listening. “I would never do something to embarrass you, and of all people you should know that. I made a career of keeping our connection discreet.”

“Liaison, connection…” Gil-galad was all but spluttering his outrage. “I loved you, you asshole. And you dismiss it as if it was a…”

“Ssh!”

“Don’t you ‘ssh’ me, you skinny baggage! You think I’m that shallow?”

“Well, you can be. Bloody shallow. Sometimes.”

“That was three and a half thousand years ago. You said so yourself. Do you think we learn nothing in the Halls?”

Erestor stopped in mid word to consider this. “They… teach you things, Fin said? About coming to terms with yourself and your mistakes.”

“Only bloody mistakes I made were using Aeglos and not my sword and thinking you had a grain of sense under that black hair.”

“No, not much teaching. Clearly. Will you keep your voice down? You’ll get me thrown out of here!”

Gil-galad subsided with a snort and dropped down onto the bed beside him. They stared at each other in the lamplight. Erestor broke the silence, reaching a careful hand up to touch errant hair.

“It’s really you?” he asked softly. “I mean, we hear about people being reborn and I’ve had Glorfindel for proof, but…” But this was what Valinor was supposed to be about, finding those who had been lost. Celebrían had been a unique case. As had Arwen.

“Glorfindel?” Gil-galad glanced around the room as though expecting a large, blond survivor of Gondolin to leap out of the closet or from behind the chair.

“They sent him back. To Imladris. About a thousand years after you … left. We’re good friends. He’ll sail when Elrond’s sons are ready to leave.”

“I heard they sent him back, yes. I’ve been hearing about Elrond’s family. Shame about Bri. She was a good girl, I was fond of her. Not a bit like her mother.”

Erestor had hoped to find Gil-galad alive, prayed for it, but the reality was a little … overwhelming? He searched for signs of difference, change, the otherness of one who had known death. Gil-galad was leaning forward, hands between his knees, hair half shielding his face. Even death had not tamed that hair, he noted. “Galadriel’s all right, just very practical,” he offered. “We get along. I had a lot of contact with her, working with Elrond as I was.”

“Twin sons, I heard. And there was something about a daughter, but some kind of scandal?”  


Erestor could not have loved Elrond’s daughter more had she been his own. He gave Gil-galad a withering look. “Arwen stayed to follow her heart. Lúthien did it and they made songs of it, why is this a cause for gossip instead?”  


“Lúthien’s mother was a Maiar so no one was taking any chances?” hazarded Gil-galad and they exchanged grins. One of the first things that had drawn them together had been their irreverent sense of humour.

“Anyhow, there were a lot of people at the dock when I arrived, many of them to greet Elrond who, last time I looked, is your cousin, but I did not see you. What was I – what am I meant to think?”

“I was away hunting!” Gil-galad’s tone was aggrieved. “I knew he was expected – word gets around, though they were mainly talking about Olorin’s return and Gildor and my aunt finally coming home. I knew I’d have plenty of time to catch up with him, didn’t have to be there on the damn jetty with the rest of them, waiting for a glimpse. And why didn’t he tell me you were here either? He’s as bad as my foster father…”

“Would you keep your voice down? And why would he tell you? He was off in Imladris most of the time, well away from the rumours. He had no reason to mention me as soon as he’d finished saying hello. Later maybe yes.”

“So let me get this right. We were such a minor event in your life you never once said anything after I died? To anyone?”

Even in the soft light from the lamp, Erestor could see the hurt outrage in his expression. Still trying to catch up with being awake and sitting on the edge of the bed with a very alive former high king, he started to wonder how this had suddenly become his fault.

“That is such a crock. Not minor at all, but we were careful. It wasn’t the kind of relationship someone in your position could get away with… We agreed, damn it. And no, I didn’t talk about it afterwards. What, you’d want me to go down through the centuries talking about back when I was being fucked by the king?”

His hand flew to his mouth, then changed direction to grab Gil-galad’s arm as he made to rise. “No, sorry, I’m sorry, didn’t mean it to come out like that, I just - I would never have traded on it, used it as a fireside story. It was too important for that. Too --- not something I wanted to share.”

The room was very still. The sea was too faint, it should have been louder, he had lived beside the sea for all those years in Mithlond and it had always shouted in the quiet hours before dawn. But this was a different sea, tamed, polite…

Gil-galad was watching him, the flash of quick anger dying back as fast as it had come. That too hadn’t changed. “I’m here now, Ressie,” he said, and his voice was warm, like the yellow light and the comfort of the room. “Really here. I waited for you all these years, not about to walk out in a fit now. Knew if you lived you would finally come home. I was afraid you might die and I would never find you again.”

Erestor’s fingers still gripped his sleeve, the knuckles white. “Are you – really you?” The words were a whisper as he studied the face for so long seen only in dreams. Same light blue eyes, same dimpled cheeks and broad mouth, same firm chin. He reached over to touch where a thin white scar had always been: the skin was clear and smooth.

Gil-galad read the unasked question. “I still look for it,” he answered with unusual gentleness. “When I look in the mirror to do my hair, my eye goes there first. I got that scar when I was a boy. And there are others missing. And the Avari clan tattoo on my arm – I had that redone, but the colour isn’t the same.”

He rested his hands on Erestor’s shoulders, his eyes serious. “Those of us not reborn in new forms but rehoused as we were before look the same, but the marks of time and injury are missing. I – I think I would like my scars, they say who I am, how I’ve lived, but it is how they do this. You spoke of Glorfindel. The same who died killing a balrog?”

Erestor nodded. Now they had both calmed down, he seemed to have caught up, just barely.

Gil-galad went on softly, his touch lighter now, fingers stroking cloth, feeling out the shape beneath. “He was not sent to you horribly scarred and burned, I’m thinking? No? Even so. Anyhow,” he added, “in my case sending me back without a few changes would have been a bit awkward. It was very quick, but I suspect what was left might not lend itself to opening the dancing at a court function.”

Erestor hesitated. “Ash?”

Blue eyes blinked. “Ash? That’s it?”

“Just ash. I know. I sat vigil on the mountain that night while everyone else was running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads chopped off and Elrond was telling anyone who came near him that if they wanted a new high king they could go ask the Valar… He was upset.”

“Glad to hear he was upset. It’s nice to be missed,” Gil-galad said straight faced, but his lips twitched, spoiling the effect, and the eyes that held Erestor’s danced, mirth in their depths, mirth and… something more. The something more made Erestor’s breath catch in his throat. Gil-galad did not miss the response, his fingers gripped Erestor’s shoulders tight again.

“You mourned me? And you looked for me when you docked?” His voice dropped lower, intimate. Erestor barely nodded as the fingers gripping his shoulders hooked and drew him closer. Before he could speak, argue, ask, Gil-galad’s mouth claimed his in a way instantly familiar from a time long past. He had always said no one kissed like Gil.

There was no space for argument, the kiss sapped his will to do so and had it not, the hands tangled in his hair and travelling over his back would make sure. Gil-galad broke the kiss and drew back, towering over him for a moment. They shared a long look involving request and consent, and then he nodded, his hands moving down Erestor’s arms towards the hem of the shirt.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly between audible breaths, “and we will. Later."

\-----o

It was a long, intense and satisfying reunion, and the night was finally winding down to morning, so close that the birds would soon start calling. They lay together limp and for a time sated, talking quietly. Erestor was unwilling to fall asleep, still half-convinced that if he closed his eyes, Gil-galad would be gone when he woke. Knowing that souls were reborn in the Undying Lands was one thing, actively experiencing this reality was another entirely.

“So? What do you think of Valinor?”

He thought about the question for a bit before answering. “I haven’t been here long so to say I dislike it doesn’t seem fair. But I can’t say I feel at home. Oh, the inn’s fine, though they have their problems here too. I’m used to being busy - I had no idea what to do with the rest of eternity and spending it doing nothing is a depressing thought.”

“You weren’t going over to Tirion with Elrond then?”

“He wants me to, but I thought I might settle here, it’s where everyone without good family connections stays. It – seems nicer than Tirion, though a long way from home.” He paused again. “I’m worried Elrond will want to start getting to know Brethil as she grows older if he’s over there and with nothing to fill his time. He’s not at ease over here either.”

Even in the dim light, Erestor could see the frown. “Do you think seeing her again would be wise?” Gil-galad asked. “The whole point of letting her return without memory was so she could become a new person, create a new history. At least that’s how I understood it. He needs to respect that and not be looking for something that’s gone. My aunt too. Let the child grow in peace.”

“She may have forgotten, but he hasn’t,” Erestor said, moving closer and resting his head on Gil-galad’s shoulder. “I don’t think he means to try and remind her, but finding her gave him purpose – gave the three of us purpose, I suppose – and now that’s done, letting go means there’s no goal, nothing to strive for. If I feel like this, I can’t begin to imagine how it is for him or Galadriel.”

“Need to distract him till his sons arrive then, don’t we?” Gil-galad said, getting his arm round Erestor and starting to play with his hair. “Gods, I’ve missed you. It’s been a long wait.”

Erestor kissed his shoulder. “Distract him how? More visits to Tirion, more new family connections? Do you know anything about why his parents won’t see him?”

“Oh, I doubt they’ve refused outright. I think Elwing just needs a little time. Must feel a bit strange. Imagine – you have this small child and then two Ages of the world and a lot of grief later, someone shows up and says ‘remember that little boy? That was me’. It was pretty much like that with my parents too. Total strangers.”

“Awkward.” He was quiet a bit, fingers tracing patterns on Gil-galad’s broad chest. “It’s awkward for all of us one way or another, really. It’s not – it’s not exactly a homecoming.”

“I wasn’t born here either,” Gil-galad reminded him. “I was born over there during the Exile, raised with the idea that we could never return. After Lord Námo cut me loose I had to work out where I belonged – huge extended family, some still in the Halls, some reborn, some never left here, whole bunch of former and current kings. It’s what you make of it, Res.”

Erestor sighed, closed his eyes. “And I probably need a bit more time to find out what that is. My Mentor thought a wife and children would be the answer... and a hobby.”

Gil-galad snorted with laughter. “He doesn’t know much about you, does he?”

“Not a whole lot. Still, I can’t live in this inn forever. They’re worried they might have to close once the ships stop sailing West. What about you? Tirion? Family responsibilities? I suppose I’ll have to move there now.”

Gil-galad pulled him closer, smiling. “I visit Tirion, but no. that’s not where I live. Don’t know what time they serve breakfast here, but let’s try for a few hours sleep before that. Then, if you’re interested, you can come with me and I’ll show you my home. I think you’ll like it more than Tirion. Elrond might too.” He laughed softly, kissed Erestor’s temple almost chastely. Well, it had been a long night. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like it enough to stay.”


	8. North

_‘Come with me and I’ll show you my home.’_

Death and a spell in the Halls hadn’t changed Gil-galad. When he offered to show Erestor his home, he meant straight after breakfast. The meal itself was an experience because unlike Elrond or even Galadriel, everyone at the inn seemed to know exactly who he was and fell over each other in their attempts to be useful or helpful. It seemed that as well as a new life, he had a new name over here, Ereinion Last-king. Erestor rather liked it.

He had his own boat moored and waiting in the harbour, low and sleek with a cheerful yellow canopy over the centre of the deck and a lifelike bear’s head carving at the prow. Erestor stopped dead on the quay and stared at it. “What in Arda…?”

Close behind him Gil-galad laughed. “It’s a bear, of course – come on, I thought he did a good job of it.”

“I can see it’s a bear,” Erestor told him dryly. “My question was more along the lines of _why_ is it a bear?”

Gil-galad passed him, striding up the plank and onto the deck with the confidence Erestor had never forgotten. He followed hastily. “Because there are no bears here,” the former High King in the East threw back over his shoulder. “And there should be. So I had one made.” Which rather summed up Gil-galad’s approach to life.

They sailed up the coast, passing a beautiful harbour with an archway of stone-carved shells that Erestor knew without being told was Alqualondé. After this they saw were several fishing vessels and what looked like a pleasure boat, gilded white with a delicate swan’s head, but none of the little villages that were the norm in the East. Gil-galad paced the deck a good deal, stopping to talk with the steersman or get involved with resetting the rigging, while Erestor watched the shore go past and mused on how quickly life’s options could change. Finding Gil-galad in and of itself did not make his world right, but at least the creeping horror at where fate had brought him had eased.

That night they ate freshly caught fish and crusty bread while they watched the night sky and talked. Erestor had an entire Age of events and people to share, but Gil-galad spoke less about his experiences.  Erestor was hesitant, but finally said, “I’m talking enough for us both, aren’t I? What about you? Being here, meeting your family, was it very strange?”

“I was in the Halls till not so long ago,” Gil-galad said, carefully peeling a soft fleshed fruit that looked, though did not taste, rather like an orange. “And that’s not easy to talk about. One day, perhaps. And then, yes, I was getting to know the family, most of whom I’d never met before, and making peace with my sister and then working out what to do next… but you’ll see when you get there. Go on, tell me about meeting Maglor in a fish market.”

“Is it even permitted to mention his name over here?” Erestor asked, only half joking. “He’s probably banished forever, isn’t he?”

Gil-galad grinned. “I’ve never heard anyone say as much. In fact I’ve never heard anyone refer to him or any of his brothers directly by name either. But it’s all right, anything’s allowed on this boat, within reason.”

“What would taking it too far involve? Just in case I need to know.” Erestor took a portion of fruit being offered him and ate it, still trying to place the flavour.

“People running at an angry Maia armed with nothing but a spear.  That one falls into the category of please don’t remind me.”

“I never worked out why you didn’t just use your sword,” Erestor admitted, licking juice off his fingers.

Gil-galad gave him a dark look. “That’s the whole point. Neither can I.”

\-----o

A ship’s deck was one of the least private places Erestor had been, but although nothing more intimate was possible, Gil-galad kept hold of his hand. If he was honest, Erestor was relieved. Last night had been unexpected and with its own touch of insanity, but he needed time to adjust to them being together before anything more happened. Talking was a different matter though, and it was very late while they lay on their backs looking up at the stars with Gil-galad telling him the names of these new, western constellations, that his eyes finally started closing. He distantly heard the low, familiar voice drifting on and then he slid into a dreamless sleep.

The first things he noticed when he woke were long streaks of cloud and that the air had a bite. It was dawn, and the sky was painted with a soft wash of gold, rose and palest green. He sat up and looked around. Gil-galad was at the tiller and the shore was closer than it had been last night. They were coming in to a small harbour, with a line of boats tied up and a few buildings that looked like packing sheds facing the quay. He got to his feet, shaking off sleep and trying to tidy his hair as he made his way over to Gil-galad.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. There’s a pretty sunrise just for you, too. This is our port, Swanberry. Don’t look like that, I didn’t name it. Welcome to the north.”

Erestor stared at the land that rushed towards them, greenly forested, with line upon line of rolling mountains behind and around it, rising up to the purpled peaks of the Pelóri. The harbour lay in a little cup of land scooped out from low cliffs. Other than a squat white tower with a green roof near the cliff’s edge, there was nothing else to be seen. The place seemed as far from Tirion as it was from the port at Mithlond. “The north? But there’s meant to be nothing north of Tirion but ice.”

There were laughs all round at that. “That would be further north,” said Hilion the steersman, a tall and angular man with brown hair and an interesting scar across his left cheek. “Though come winter you’d think that’s where we were.”

“There’s a decent sized village through the trees over there,” Gil-galad said. “Though that’s not where we’re going. This is just as far as the water will take us.”

One of the sailors was already leaning over the side, hands cupping mouth and shouting to a figure on the mainland, “Four horses, not three. He wants an extra one. An extra horse! Yes. Well, go ask Lady I. Tell her the king’s home.”

After they landed, the first thing Erestor noticed was the lack of the all pervasive odour of a fishing harbour, and when he glanced in one of the buildings they passed he saw boxes stored, ready to be loaded. Of the boats, only one looked like it saw regular service as a fisher. He stored the information away; now was not the time to ask. They went between the buildings and out the back to find three horses waiting with a sleepy-looking young elf who scrambled to his feet when he saw them and bowed to Gil-galad. It was more of a housemaid’s bob, Erestor thought, but the attempt made him smile. It was the antithesis of what he would have expected in Tirion or even on Tol Eressëa.

“He’s gone for another horse, sir,” the boy said generally to whoever needed to know. “Said he’d not be long.”

“That’s all right,” said Hilion, who was coming with them, as was one of the other mariners. “No hurry. He’s not passed over yet, has he? No need to get thrown off the horse. Can’t work out why they never get used to it,” he added to Gil-galad, who grinned briefly and shrugged.

Erestor was puzzling over this when the air around them changed and he heard a sound that defied description, a kind of thrumming whoosh that seemed to be coming directly towards them. Then the light was blotted out by something massive overhead and on reflex he ducked.

He heard someone chuckling and risked an upward glance, then straightened slowly onto his knees and then to his feet, trying to make sense of the ship, tall and majestic with high masts and shimmering sails, that shot through the air above them and on towards the mountains. Brilliant light spilled from its deck, throwing lines and shadows on the ground into stark relief.. Then it banked steeply and sunk down out of view.

There was silence, then Gil-galad said to Hilion, “Gods, he’s in a hurry for his breakfast.” He grinned at Erestor, eyes dancing wickedly. “Yes, all right, I should have warned you but it’s the tradition out here. Vingelot. Coming home. The sky port’s just out of sight there, in the valley.”

Erestor’s heart was still pounding. An actual flying ship, with Elwing’s Silmaril on board – he had always thought this was the stuff of legends, not a metal and wood reality. “You bastard, I nearly had a heart attack,” he yelled at Gil-galad. Remembering who he was shouting at and where they were he caught his breath then added with quiet sincerity, “King or not, your sense of humour will get you in real trouble one day.”

He had no idea what the response would have been in Tirion to him shouting at one of the Finwëans, but here it just raised another laugh.

“Not to worry, everyone does that first time,” Hilion told him. “You did all right, I’ve heard seasoned warriors scream about dragons.”

A horse trotted into view, ridden by a girl whose golden hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Hilion raised a hand to her in greeting and she returned the gesture, dismounting as she reached them and then bowed to Gil-galad. She was armed with a bow and dressed in tunic, pants and boots, with her hair in a single thick braid slung forward over her shoulder. She bore no resemblance to the draped and flounced ladies Erestor had seen in Tirion and to a lesser extent on Tol Eressëa.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she said, a little breathless. “I’d have been faster but I had to walk this silly animal because the sky ship was coming.”

Erestor finally noticed the horses were restless and the boy was holding firmly onto their reins. The earlier comment about being thrown off the horse now made sense. Gil-galad meanwhile was shaking his head, “There was no need to hurry, I’m in no rush. There’s someone here you might like to meet though.”

The girl glanced around and her eyes settled on him, the only stranger. She looked almost familiar, something about her colouring, the shape of her face, her summer blue eyes. He had it almost before Gil-galad said, “Indilë, this is Erestor, recently from Imladris. He knows your brother well. Erestor, this is…”

“Gods, you must be Glorfindel’s sister,” Erestor said with disbelief. “It’s not even the hair, it’s the eyes.”

Indilë’s startled look matched his own for a moment, then her face cleared. “You know my brother?” she exclaimed, taking the few steps forward. “We get people from – how do you say it, Imladris? But he’s a legend and a hero to them when I ask, they’ve not spent time with him. How wonderful to meet someone who knows him…” Her voice was low and pleasant, her Sindarin accented but fluent, more so than Glorfindel’s had been when he first arrived. “Will he be coming over soon? It’s been such a long time. I was very young the night Gondolin burned.”

Erestor took her hands almost without thinking. “I hugged him goodbye when I boarded the ship just a few weeks ago. He’ll be a while still, there was something he promised a friend he would do. But then he’ll sail, probably the last ship that will cross the sea.”

“I was afraid something had happened and no one had told me,” she said frowning. “It can take time to get news out here, even important news.”

“Why would no one tell you?” Gil-galad almost growled. “Would I forget to tell you something like that?”

“You have been known to assume…” Erestor started. Gil-galad scowled at him and he stopped.

Indilë shook her head. “It could take a little time because you might be off hunting or visiting some solitary relative or climbing a mountain. But yes, Your Majesty, I know you would tell me.”

“A little more respect there,” Gil-galad told her, amused. To Erestor he added, “She gets away with things because no one else wants her job and she knows it. She’s my right hand at the coast, keeps track of everything, makes sure Eärendil’s requests are seen to, gets on with Elwing – if I wasn’t here she’d tell you that’s the difficult part. That tower down there is where they live – out of the way, but they like it and it’s convenient to the sky dock for him.”

“I suppose you’re going to Starhaven now? When you come back, will you tell me more about my brother?” Indilë asked earnestly. “We hear rumours, and there are people around who knew him, but not well… I never know what to think.”

He had to tilt his head up slightly to meet her eyes because she was tall and solidly built for a woman: height and strength plainly ran in the family. She seemed serious where her brother was cheerful with an irrepressible sense of humour and love for life. There was a shadow behind her eyes that made him wonder what else there was to her story beyond the night Gondolin fell and people died. “Lady Indilë, I give you my word, but be warned - there are a lot of stories, they may take more than a few hours in the telling.”

“He can stop by the village and talk with you on his way back,” Gil-galad told her. “I’m just showing him around, he’s not staying. Yet.”

She withdrew her hands, strong and capable, with an archer’s callouses, and her lips curved in a small smile.  “Many people come and look,” she told him, “and almost all return. On your way back, come early and we can have a meal and talk.”

Erestor touched his forehead respectfully, after all she was a daughter of one of the Great Houses of Gondolin. “I look forward to spending time with my friend’s sister,” he assured her.

“Enough, Indilë. He’ll be back in a day or two,” Gil-galad cut in firmly. “I’ll make sure there’s time enough for you to get all the news you can manage. Oh, and be sure and tell the Queen I’m back. She gets upset when we forget.”

He saw Erestor’s baffled look and shrugged. “Elwing. She likes the title. It’s a little thing, something I don’t bother with much, but it makes her happy. They don’t like the idea in Tirion, but the way I see it is with so many kings and queens around, one more or less makes no difference. Right - pick a horse. We’ve a bit of a ride ahead.”

 


	9. Home

They rode for over an hour, mainly through heavy woodland though there were also passes between rocky clefts and two rivers to ford. One was shallow but they had to swim the horses across the second. Erestor had not been on horseback for weeks – longer – but he enjoyed every moment. It was almost like being back in Middle-earth, on some out of the way trail, except the light was still diffused and he was sure there was no forest in Middle-earth where such a variety of trees and plants grew. The birds too were melodious but unknown to him. It was almost the mirror opposite to neat, pristine Valinor.

The best thing about the ride, besides having Gil-galad close enough to reach out and touch, was the way the weight inside his chest began to lessen and his breathing felt easier. All the sadness of losing Celebrían twice, the loneliness of being an outsider amongst his own, faded away into the fragrant air and the ongoing conversation, which was about people and events he knew nothing of, but was still relaxing to listen to.

Only when they left the trees and followed a stone trail up to a narrow pass did Erestor realize that here too, there were guards, one on each side of the entrance. There would be either two or four more out of sight, he supposed, as had always been the deployment in Imladris. He shot Gil-galad a surprised look that was met with a smooth stare in return. ‘What?” the former High King in the East said. “This is our home. What would it say if we weren’t careful of it? Just a precaution.”

The guards saluted as they passed and Erestor noted that they had businesslike daggers at their belts though at least they weren’t wearing swords. He then recalled the guards outside the palace in Tirion that he had thought ornamental, and wondered again. And there was the matter of Hilion and his brother mariner, did they have personal reasons that took them in this direction, or were they Gil-galad’s informal bodyguard? 

Guards, experience told him. Definitely guards.

He puzzled at this all the way through the pass, a channel that in places forced the horses to go in single file. When they were alone, he decided, he had some questions for Gil. And then they passed through the gap and he forgot about guards and the hitherto unremarked fact that Glorfindel’s sister had also been armed and just stared.

The lake was a deep grey blue under the now-cloudy sky and stretched across to the forest on the opposite shore which in turn climbed up the mountain slopes behind it, deep green giving way to shades of moss and blue and rising to peaks tipped with snow. Houses clustered around the lake within the shelter of more mountains, spreading around in a wide, sprawling arc. There were a couple of docks that he could see, and the houses were clustered more in one place than another, but it all looked open and peaceful and very beautiful. Gil-galad drew rein beside him.

“Where are we?” Erestor asked, gesturing in amazement. “What did she call it? Starhaven? It’s like I said, all we’re told is that the north is cold and empty. Why does no one know about this?”

“Because it’s ours,” Gil-galad, Ereinion Last-king, replied, sitting calmly while his horse tossed its head and snorted, eager for home. “All the outcasts, all the people who could not fit into formal, polite Elvenhome, everyone looking for somewhere to belong, honest work to do, and clean air to breathe – we find them. Sometimes we need a bit of help, sometimes they need a bit of help, but it all works out. As for why you’ve not heard of it? Well, it hasn’t been here for long, and they’re suspicious of new things back in Tirion. Only the well connected know about us, and they’d as soon not talk about the flawed souls who don’t appreciate Paradise. Which we mainly don’t.”

“We?” Erestor was struggling to catch up yet again. It was still an unfamiliar experience, not one he liked much and it was happening too often.

Gil-galad smiled and reached over to rest a hand on his thigh, something he would never have done in public before. “Come and see,” he said.

\-----o

The streets were either cleanly gravelled or else cobbled and when the town closed around them there were houses and shops and craftsmen’s workshops, vegetable and flower gardens - he even saw chickens and some goats. A cat cleaned itself on a gate post. Everything led downhill towards the water, and some of the streets were so steep he wondered at the houses along them and how people could go up and down with such ease. Everyone they passed saluted Gil-galad respectfully but there was no great fuss, he was plainly a regular sight. Erestor remembered how he had liked to go about amongst his people before in Lindon, but his council had placed restraints on those movements.

They left the horses at a stable yard with good pasture running up to the steep slope that rose behind the houses and went the rest of the way on foot. It was the best way to get the feel of the place, Hilion told him as they took their leave – this was home and they had families to visit. He followed Gil-galad, taking in the sights but as before keeping questions to a minimum. There were a few detours, people Gil wanted to look in on or check up on, he wasn’t clear as to which, but finally they came to his home. It was not quite a palace this time, but a well built house down at the water’s edge and set a little apart from the rest with windows looking out onto the lake and his emblem flying from the roof. There was a shallow strip of shale beach in front and a jetty off to the side with another boat, the canopy displaying the familiar blue with silver stars this time.

“Not all that big, but it’s comfortable. Warm in winter and easy to find,” Gil-galad told him. “Most important. Círdan drummed that into me when I was a boy – make sure people can find you when there’s a problem.” He seemed amused by something but said nothing more except an aside to a girl who was energetically polishing the red flagstones of the long veranda that extended along the front of the house and overlooked the little beach. “I have one more surprise for you,” he told Erestor, pausing with a foot on the last of the steps leading up. “I think you’ll like this one best. Well, almost as good as me waking you up in the middle of the night, of course. Hard to beat that.”

“You did set the bar rather high with that. Are we still in Valinor? It’s like another country.” Erestor asked, shaking his head. It had been a lot to take in.

“This is Araman, past Valinor. Near where Feanor had his place at Formenos, if that’s where I think it is. Never been there in person. But we’re still in Aman, if that’s what you’re asking. Oh, here’s your surprise, staring at you with her mouth open.”

There was an audible gasp from the doorway and the next moment, before he even had a chance to turn round, solid weight flung itself onto him and arms wrapped round him tightly. “Erestor, Erestor, oh Lady Bright, it’s you, it is you!”

Even though he was stunned, there was no mistaking the voice, nor the face turned up to his, the brown eyes already brimming with tears. “Veryanis?” he asked wonderingly. “It’s not possible. We lost you in Eregion…”

“And when I’d had my rest and healing in the Halls I was allowed to come back,” she said, laughing through the tears. “Not everyone stays forever – I’d barely started to live.”

“I invited her over and found she likes cooking, which is a good thing for anyone who has a meal in this house,” Gil-galad said as though this was all completely normal. Then, seriously, “What, do you think I’d leave your sister to suffocate on Tol Eressëa?”

Erestor looked at him over his sister’s shoulder, unwilling to let Veryanis go just yet, even if he could with her clutching him round his waist. “I think you just equalled waking me up in the middle of the night,” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Two of the best surprises of my life in a matter of days.”

“That’s good,” said Gil-galad cheerfully. “Give it time and I’ll even make up for dying on you.”

\-----o

Gil-galad gave Veryanis the night off so the siblings could spend time catching up, and she decided the best place for this was her favourite end-of-day spot on those rare occasions when she wasn’t in the kitchen preparing dinner. This was how they came to be sitting in her bedroom on the window seat with cups of pale golden wine, watching the sky change and the light fade.

Now that they were quiet and alone, Erestor could finally ask the question that was in the front of his mind, the one that first needed a deep swallow of wine and a steadying breath. “Nan and Adar? They’re not here at all, are they?”

She shook her head and bit her lip as she always did when something bothered her. “I thought they would be here to greet me when I left the Halls, but then I was told they were amongst those who chose not to return. I – I couldn’t understand that. I wanted life back so badly and yet they could give it up and go on as spirit, not even willing to try so we could be a family again.”

“Glorfindel said he thought many who died hard deaths chose not to leave Lord Námo’s Halls,” he said, forcing down the sorrow that he thought he had already rationalised and accepted weeks ago. “If one really wanted to stay, then I suppose they’d have chosen to be together. It must be what they wanted, we have to be happy for them, don’t we?”

She nodded, sighed softly. “I thought I was used to it and now you’ve gone and reminded me of how sad I was about that. But still, yes, if they were tired then they need to rest.”

“And we’re together,” he reminded her smiling. “A smaller family but still a family. I’d all but given up on you, but here you are, the same as when I last saw you. Just – wiser and happier and your hair’s much longer.”

“I always wished I had your hair,” she told him, twining a lock round her fingers. “We have everything else in common – hair colour, eyes, both short…”

“I’m not short, no idea why people keep saying that.”

She giggled. “All right then, most of the men I know are too tall then, you’re just right. Anyhow, we have all that, but my hair doesn’t have the sheen or the texture and I don’t have your eyelashes either. Such a waste on a man.”

“Life never was fair,” Erestor told her smiling. He kept wanting to touch her, be sure she was really there, rather as he did with Gil-galad. “Though I can’t complain – since I got to Aman I’ve lost one but gained two people very dear to me. I’ve finally found some good in the place.”

“Who did you lose?” she asked gently. “People return, you know. Sometimes you have to wait a long time… “

He shook his head. “Someone very special, the wife of a good friend and someone I knew all her life. And she won’t return. Such terrible things happened to her that she asked to be reborn to another family with no memory of her past. We saw her, a sweet young girl – until then, I think we and her mother hoped she had found healing here.”

Veryanis leaned against him, still watching the sky. “But how wonderful to have another chance,” she said softly. “There are others who would give all they have to lose their memories. There is only so much they can help you with in the Halls. Give thanks for your friend, for she is blessed.”

Erestor put his arm around her and was quiet, drinking his wine. Then he said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that, neither I think had her husband. That’s – that’s a great truth. Thank you.” He kissed the top of her head, then asked because he was her brother and he had to know, “What of you? How bad are your memories? Is it all right if I ask? The only reborn person I knew before Gil and you is Glorfindel, and I think he was a special case anyhow. He makes dreadful jokes about being crisped…”

“You call him Gil,” she interrupted sternly. “How is it that my brother grew to call a king by such a personal name?”

“Long story. No really, it’s a long, long story. Yours is more interesting.”

“Always wonder that he never wed, a kind, wise, good looking man like him. Hmph. Mine? Oh it’s not so bad, truly. Most of it I barely recall, though I’ll never be good with fire too fierce and too close. They left me to burn at the end. No hush, it’s all right. I passed out and when I woke I was beyond. Erestor, you’re crushing me!”

He relaxed his hold on her hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I just – I am so sorry. I should have been there.”

“You were off fighting somewhere,” she said, as practical as she’d ever been, “and if you hadn’t been, you’d have died too and not be on such fine terms with royalty. So it’s as it is.”

He gave a huff of laughter and nodded, holding her against him but more carefully now. It was a cosy room, well lived in, with lots of warm colour and pretty things. “You’ve been here a while?” he asked, nodding to the room.

She drew a little away so she could look at him. “After I – came back, I spent some time on the Island, but there was no one I knew and you have to belong with someone there, so I would need to do cleaning or some such and…” she smiled, remembering, “and then His Majesty came visiting and sent for me. He told me you’d been friends and would I like a place in his household or see what else I’d like doing. And I said I liked to cook… And he said well, he needed a second cook.”

Erestor had a sudden memory of Líssië’s worried face as she talked about the inn closing. “Does he have a lot of people to stay, that he needs two cooks?”

She pulled a droll face. “Oh yes, there’s always guests coming and going, sometimes the house gets quite full. But I like it. I get to try new things.”

“Do you think there’d be place for someone else, maybe just to tidy up and help guests feel comfortable?”

Her eyebrows went right up. “You’re looking for a position?”

Erestor burst out laughing. “I should ask, just for the look on his face. No, no, there’s a young girl at the inn where I’m staying on Tol Eressëa and she’s worried the inn will close soon, when the ships stop coming in from the East. I just thought…”

“Oh, there’s always something when people aren’t happy there,” she said, quite certain. “And I don’t doubt if you ask she’ll have something to come to here.”

“If people come and go as you say, is there any need for an inn here?” he asked, feeling out the idea.

Veryanis shrugged. “I’m sure there would be? There are little settlements all over and people come to town to trade or see family or to sail on the lake – that’s very popular, even the Sindar who live in tree houses across the lake come over for that sometimes.”

“Sindar…?”

“Oh yes. They’re meant to stay on the Island and some love it but most don’t. Then they find their way here and they’ve made their own place in the trees. It’s a little strange but I’ve been over there and it’s lovely.”

“It sounds like Lórien,” he said softly, being careful of the memory because like all memories of home it had the power to hurt.

“Lórien?”

“It was over the mountain from Eregion,” he reminded her. “I can’t remember what they called it back then. They lived in the trees, there were little walkways and ladders and lanterns everywhere and song…”

She snuggled against him and sighed. “It sounds beautiful. I think this must be a little like that. I’ve not been there after dark though. How is it you went there? Did you travel a lot?”

Erestor nodded. “I used to go over and negotiate things for Elrond and sometimes for Gil - carry sensitive messages, that kind of thing. That kind of work took me to the Havens and Lórien and sometimes to places like Gondor or even Harad.”

Her eyes were wide. “That sounds important. I knew you were with Gil-Estel’s son, but I never knew what you did. Are you going to stay here now and help our king like that?”

Erestor sniffed. “He hasn’t asked me to, Veryanis.”

“He will,” she said simply. “And – you will stay, won’t you? I won’t lose my brother again?”

“I have to go back to Tol Eressëa and speak with Elrond of course but after that I’ll come back if he’ll have me. And if we’re being strictly accurate, you were the one who was lost, I was there all the time.”

She punched him the way she used to when they were children. “You haven’t changed, you’re still impossible. All right, we’re not to lose each other again. Is that better?”

“You’ll be looking for ways to be rid of me after a while,” he teased her. “Eternity is a very long time.”

“We can worry about it when we get there,” she told him, resting her head against his shoulder again. “Until then, I’m going to just enjoy being part of a family again.”

=====o=====

After dinner, Erestor took a walk the length of the little beach to the place where flower pots set amongst rocks and grasses marked the end of the king’s property. Intent on the night noises and getting a sense of this new place, it was only when he turned back that he realized he wasn’t alone. For a moment he was startled, frowning at the lithe form moving out of the shadows and then he recognised her. Small and slight, with soft wild hair and a young, sweet face… 

“My Lady Vairë,” he said quietly, bowing low. “There’s no need to ask how you got here, is there?”

Her laugh was soft and warm. She came right up to him and reached up to pat his cheek. “There is nowhere I cannot go,” she said. “There are places my lord husband asks me not to visit, and out of respect for him, I don’t, but not because I cannot go there.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm while she was talking and smiled up at him. “Come. You were turning back, were you not?”

They walked a few paces before Erestor finally said, “You arranged this, didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “Not this, no,” she said. “Sometimes I tell people where to find other people who might need them, but I knew he would find you in time, your pattern was not complete. And from you, it is a short reach to Elwing’s son, although Ereinion has already set that in motion. And from him, to that bright, restless, rebellious soul, Finarfin’s daughter, who I have always admired. And her husband with the silver hair….”

“Weaving people together,” Erestor said softly, the beginnings of a smile warming his face at the thought of his sister, and of a quiet-eyed blonde woman who, yes, did resemble her brother more than a little.

Hazel eyes laughed up at him and Vairë ducked her head in a quick, bird-like motion. “Of course,” she said. “Finding the patterns and guiding the thread. I record the past and watch over the present, but before everything else, matching colours and smoothing yarn is my life’s joy and what I do. And now you are here, the time has come for you to go about finding your life’s joy too.”

\-----o-----o-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completed so much as paused... there was not meant to be as much story there as I found.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Red Lasbelin


End file.
